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HENRY GEORGE’S LATEST WORK 


Protection or Free Trafie ? 

H:] EXAMINATION OF THE TARIFF QUESTION WITH ESPECIAL REGARD 
TO THE INTERESTS OF UBOR. 

By HENRY GEORGE, 

Aiithor of “ Progress and Poverty,” "Social Problems,’ 
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Olotli, ^1.^0. 


OOITTElSrTS- 


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XXV. The robber that takes all 

that is left. 

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XXVII. The lion in the path. 
XXVHL Free trade and socialism. 
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XXX. Conclusion. 


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1 




A MODERN TELEHACeOS 


BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. 


PREFACE. 

The idea of this tale was taken from “The Mariners’ 
Chronicle, ’ ’ compiled by a person named Scott early in the 
last century— a curious book of narratives of maritime ad- 
ventures, with exceedingly quaint illustrations. Nothing 
has ever shown me more plainly that truth is stranger than 
fiction, for all that is most improbable here is the actual 
fact. 

The Comte de Bourke was really an Irish Jacobite natu- 
ralized in France, and married to the daughter of tlie 
Marquis de Varennes, as well as in high favor with the 
Marshal Duke of Berwick. 

In 1719, just when the ambition of Elizabeth Farnese, the 
second wife of Philip V. of Spain, had involved that coun- 
try in a war with England, France, and Austria, the count 
was transferred from the Spanish embassy to that of 
Sweden, and sent for his wife and two elder children to 
join him at a Spanish port. 

This arrangement was so strange that I can only account 
for it by supposing that as this was the date of a feeble Span- 
ish attempt on behalf of the Jacobites in Scotland, Comte de 
Bourke may not have ventured by the direct route. Or, it 
may not have been etiquette for him to re-enter France 
when appointed embassador. At any rate, the poor 
countess did take this route to the south, and I am inclined 
to think the narrative must be correct, as all the sidelights 
I have been able to gain perfectly agree with it, often in an 
unexpected manner. 

The suit and the baggage were just as related in I lie 
story— the only liberty I have taken being the bestowal of 
names. “ Monsieur Arture ” was really of the party, but 
I have made him Scotch instead of Irish, and I lun e no 
knowledge that the lackey was not French. The imbecility 


4 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


of the abbe is merely a deduction from his helplessness, 
but of course this may have been caused by illness. 

The meeting with * Monsieur de Varennes at Avignon, 
Berwick’s offer of an escort, and the countess’ dread of the 
Pyrenees are all facts, as well as her embarkation in the 
Genoese tartan bound for Barcelona, and its capture by 
the Algerine corsair commanded by a Dutch renegade, 
who treated her well, and to whom she gave her watch. 

Algerine history confirms what is said of his treatment. 
Louis XIV. had bombarded the pirate city, and compelled 
the dey to receive a consul and to liberate French prisoners 
and French property ; but the lady having been taken in 
an Italian ship, the Dutchman was afraid to set her ashore 
without first taking her to Algiers, lest he should fall under 
suspicion. He would not venture on taking so many 
women on board his own vessel, being evidently afraid of 
his crew of more than two hundred Turks and Moors, but 
sent seven men on board the prize and took it in tow. 

Curiously enoi^gh, history mentions the very tempest 
which drove the tartan apart from her captor, for it also 
shattered the French transports and interfered with Ber 
wick’s Spanish campaign. 

The circumstances of the wreck have been closely fol- 
lowed. “ Monsieur Arture ” actually saved Mademoiselle 
de Bourke, and placed her in the arms of the inaitre d'' hotel, 
who had reached a rock, together with the abbe, the 
lackey, and one out of the four maids. The other three 
were all in the cabin with their mistress and her son, and 
shared their fate. 

The real “ Arture ” tried to swim to the shore, but never 
was seen again, so that his adventures with the little boy 
are wholly imaginary. But the little girl’s conduct is per- 
fectly true. When in the steward’s arms she declared that 
the savages might take her life, but never should make her 
deny her faith. 

The account of these captors was a great difficulty, till 
in the old “Universal History” I found a description of 
Algeria which tallied wonderfully with the narrative. It 
was taken from a survey of the coast made a few years 
later by English officials. 

The tribe inhabiting Mounts Araz and Couco, and border- 
ing on Djigheli Bay, were really wild Arabs, claiming high 
descent, but very loose Mohammedans, and savage in their 
habits. Their name of Cabeleyzes is said— with what truth 
I know not— to mean “ revolted,” and they held themselves 
independent of the dey. They were in the habit of murder- 
ing or enslaving all shipwrecked travelers, except subjects 
of Algiers, whom they released with nothing but their 
lives. 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS, 


All this perfectly explains the sufferings of Mademoiselle 
de Bourke. The history of the plundering, the threats, the 
savage treatment of the corpses, the wild dogs, the 
councils of the tribe, the separation of the captives, and the 
child’s heroism, is all literally true— the expedient of Vic- 
torine’s defense alone being an invention. It is also true 
that the little girl and the maitre d' hotel wrote four letters, 
and sent them by different chances to Algiers, but only the 
last ever arrived, and it created a great sensation. 

Monsieur Dessault is a real personage, and the kindness 
of the dey and of the Moors was exactly as related, also the 
expedient of sending the Marabout of Bugia to negotiate. 

Mr. Thomas Thompson was really the English consul at 
the time, but his share in the matter is imaginary, as it 
depends on Arthur's adventures. 

The account of the Marabout sj^stem comes from the 
“Universal History,” but the arrival, the negotiations, 
and the desire of the. sheik to detain the young French 
lady for a wife to his son, are from the narrative. He 
really did claim to be an equal match for her, were she 
daughter of the King of France, sincie he was King of the 
Mountains. 

The welcome at Algiers and the Te Deum in the consul’s 
chapel also are related in the book that serves me for 
authority. It adds that Mademoiselle de Bourke finally 

married a Marquis de B , and lived much respected in 

Provence, dying shortly before the Revolution. 

I will only mention further that a rescued Abyssinian 
slave named Fareek (happily not tongueless) was well 
known to me many years ago in the household of the late 
Warden Barter of Winchester College. 

Since writing the above I have by the kindness of friends 
been enabled to discover Mr. Scott’s authority, namely, a 
book entitled “ Voyage pour la Redemption des Captifs aux 
Royaumes d’Al^er et de Tunis, fait en 1720 par les P. P. 
Francois Comelm, Philemon de la Motte, et Joseph Ber 
nard, de I’Ordre de la Sainte Trinite, dit Mathurine.” 
This order was established by Jean Matha for the ransom 
and rescue of prisoners in the hands of the Moors. A 
translation of the adventures of the Comtesse de Bourke 
and her daughter was published in the Catholic World, 
New York, July, 1881. It exactly agrees with the narra- 
tion in “ The Mariners’ Chronicle ” except that, in the true 
spirit of the eighteenth century, Mr. Scott thought fit to 
suppress that these ecclesiastics were at Algiers at the 
time of the arrival of Mademoiselle de Bourke’s letter, 
that they interested themselves actively on her behalf, and 
that they Avrote the narratiA^e from the lips of the maitre 
d' hot el (Avho indeed may clearly be traced throughout). It 


6 


A MODKRX TELEMACnUS. 


seems also that the gold cups were chalices, and that a 
complete set of altar equipments fell a prey to the Ca- 
beleyzes, whose name the good fathers endeavor to con 
nect with CafeaZe— with about as much reason as if we en- 
deavored to derive that word from the ministry of Charles 
IL 

Had I known in time of the assistance of these benevo- 
lent brethren I would certainly have introduced them with 
all due honor, but, like th3 Abbe Vertot, I have to say, 
Mon histoire est ecrite, and what is worse— printed. More- 
over, they do not seem to have gone on the mission with 
the Marabout from Bugia. so that their presence really 
only accounts for the Te Deum with which the redeemed 
captives were welcomed. 

It does not seem quite certain whether Monsieur Dessault 
was consul or envoy ; I incline to think the latter. The 
translation in the Catholic World speaks of Sir Arthur, but 
Mr. Scott’s “ Monsieur Arture ” is much mors vraisemhla- 
ble. He probably had either a surnalne to be concealed or 
else unpronounceable to French lips. Scott must have had 
some further information of the after history of Mademoi- 
selle de Bourke, since he mentions her marriage, which 
could hardly have taken place when Pere Comelin’s book 
was published in 1720. 

C. M. Yongb. 

o 

CHAPTER I. 

COMPANIONS OF THE VOYAGE. 

“ Make mention thereto 
Touching much-loved father’s safe return, 

If of his whereabout I may best hear.” 

Odyssey (Musgrave). 

“ Oh! brother, I wish they had named you Telemaque, 
and then it would have been all right!” 

“Why so, sister? Why should I be called by so ugly a 
name? I like Ulysses much better; and it is also the name 
of my papa. ’ ’ 

“ That is the very thing. His name is Ulysses, and we 
are going to seek for him.” 

“Oh! I hope that cruel old Mentor is not coming to 
tumble us down over a great rock, like Telemaque in the 
picture.” 

“ You mean Pere le Brun?” 

“Yes; you know he always says he is our Mentor. And 
I wish he would change into a goddess with a helmet and 
a shield, with an ugly face, and go off in a cloud. Do you 
think he will, EsteUe?” 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


V 


“ Do not be so silly, Ulick; there are no goddesses now. ” 

“ I heard Monsier de la Mede tell that pretty lady with 
the diamond butterfly that she was his goddess ; so there 
are!” 

” You do not understand, brother. That was only flat- 
tery and compliment. Goddesses were only in the Greek 
mythology, and were all over long ago!” 

“But are we really going to see our papa?” 

” Oh, yes, mamma told me so. He is made embassador 
to Sweden, you know.” 

“Is that greater than envoy to Spain?” 

“ Very, very much greater. They call mamma Madame 
I’Embassadrice; and she is having three complete new 
dresses made. See, there are la bonne and Laurent talk- 
ing. It is English, and if we go near with our cups and 
balls we shall hear all about it. Laurent always knows, 
because my uncle tells him.” 

“You must call him ‘La Jeunesse ’ now he is made 
mamma’s lackey. Is he not beautiful in his new livery? " 

“Be still now, brother; I want to hear what they are 
saying.” 

This may sound somewhat sly, but French children, 
before Rousseau had made them the fashion, were kept in 
the background, and were reduced to picking up intelli 
gence as Dest they could, wdthout any sense of its being 
dishonorable to do so; and, indeed, it was more neglect 
than desire of concealment that left them uninformed. 

This was in 1719, four years after the accession of Louis 
XV., a puny infant, to the French throne, and in the 
midst of the regency of the Duke of Orleans. The scone 
was a broad walk in the Tuileries gardens, beneath a 
closely-clipped wall of greenery, along which were dis- 
posed alternately busts upon pedestals and stone vases of 
flowers, while beyond lay formal beds of flowers, the 
gravel walks between radiating from a fountain, at pres- 
ent quiescent, for it was only ten o’clock in the forenoon, 
and the gardens were chiefly frequented at that hour by 
children and their attendants, who, like Estelle and Ulysse 
de Bourke, were taking an early walk on their way home 
from mass. 

They were a miniature lady and gentleman of the period 
in costume, with the single exception that, in consideration 
of their being only nine and seven years old, their hair 
was free from powder. Estelle’s light, almost flaxen locks 
were brushed back from her forehead, and tied behind 
with a rose colored ribbon, but uncovered,^ except by a 
tiny lace cap on the crown of her head ; Ulick’s darker hair 
was carefully arranged in great curls on his back and 
shoulders, as like a full-bottomed wig as nature would per- 


8 


^ MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


mit, and over it he wore a little cocked-hat edged with 
gold lace. He had a rich laced cravat, a double-breasted 
waistcoat of pale-blue satin, and breeches to match, a 
brown velvet coat with blue embroidery on the pockets, 
collar, and skirts, silk stockings to match, as well as the 
knot of the tiny scabbard of the semblance of a sword at 
his side, shoes "with silver buckles, and altogether he might 
have been a full-grown comte or vicomte seen through a 
diminishing glass. His sister was in full-hooded dress, 
with tight long waist, and sleeves reaching to her elbows, 
the under skirt a pale pink, the upper a deeper rose-color; 
but stiff as was the attire, she had managed to give it 
a slight general air of disarrangement, to get her cap a 
little on one side, a stray curl loose on her forehead, to tear 
a bit of the dangling lace on her arms, and to splash her 
robe with a puddle. He was in air, feature, and complexion 
a perfect little dark Frenchman. 

The contour of her face, still more its rosy glow, were 
more in accordance with her surname, and so especially 
were the large, deep-blue eyes with the long dark lashes 
and penciled brows. And there was a lively, restless air 
about her, full of intelligence, as she maneuvered her 
brother toward a stone seat, guarded by a couple of cupids 
reining in sleepy -looking lions in stone, where, under the 
shade of a lime-tree, her little petticoated brother of two 
years old was asleep, cradled in the lap of a large, portly, 
handsome woman, in a dark dress, a white cap and apron, 
and dark crimson cloak, loosely put back, as it was an August 
day. Native costumes were then, as now, always worn by 
f’rench nurses; but this was not the garb of any province 
of the kingdom, and was as Irish as the brogue in which 
she was conversing with the tall, fine young man who 
stood at ease beside her. He was in a magnificent green- 
and-gold livery suit, his hair powdered, and fastened in a 
queue, the whiteness contrasting with the dark brows, and 
the eyes and complexion of that fine Irish type that it is 
the fashion to call Milesian. He looked proud of his dress, 
which was viewed in those days as eminently becoming, 
and did, in fact, display his well-made figure and limbs to 
great advantage; but he looked anxiously about, and his 
first inquiry on coming on the scene in attendance upon 
the little boy had been : 

“ The top of the morning to ye, mother? And where is 
Yictorine?’’ 

“ Arrah, and what would ye want with Victorine?’’ de- 
manded the bonne. “ Is not the old mother enough for one 
while, to feast her eyes on her an’ Lanty Callaghan, now 
he has shed the marmitcyn's slough, and come out in old 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


9 


Ireland’s colors, like a butterfly from a palmer? La 
Jeimesse, instead of Laurent here and Laurent there.” 

La Pierre and La Jeunnesse were the stereotyped names 
of all pairs of lackeys in French noble houses, and the title 
was a mark of promotion ; but Lanty winced and said, 
“ Have done with that, mother. You know that never the 
pot nor the kettle has blacked my fingers since Master 
Plielim went to the good father’s school with me to carry 
his books and insinse him with the learning. ’Tis all one, 
as his own body-servant that I have been, as was fitting 
for his own foster-brother, till now, when not one of the 
servants, barring myself and Maitre Hebert, the steward, 
will follow Madame la Comtesse beyond the four walls of 
Paris. ‘Will you desert us, too, Laurent?’ says the lady. 

‘ And is it me you mane, madame?’ says I, ‘sorrah a Cal- 
laghan ever deserted a Burke!’ ‘Then,’ says she, ‘ if you 
will go with us to Sweden, jmu shall have two lackey’s 
suits, and a couple of louis d'or to cross your pocket with 
by the year, forbye the fee and bounty of all the visitors 
to Monsieur le Comte. ’ ‘Is it MonsieuV I’Abbe goes with 
madame?’ says I. ‘And why not?’ says she. ‘ Then,’ says 
I, ‘ ’tis myself that is mightily obliged to your ladyslifp, 
and am ready to put on her colors and do all in reason in 
her service, so as I am free to attend to Master Phelim, that 
is Monsieur 1’ Abbe, whenever he needs me, that am in duty 
bound as his own foster-brother.’ ‘Ah, Laurent,’ says 
she, ‘ ’tis you that are the faithful domestic. We shall all 
stand in need of such good offices as we can do to one an- 
other, for we shall have a long and troublesome, if not 
dangerous journey, both before and after we have met 
Monsieur le Comte.’ ” 

Estelle here nodded her head with a certain satisfaction, 
while the nurse replied : 

“ And what other answer could the son of your father 
make— heavens be his bed — that was shot through the 
head by the masther’s side in the weary wars in Spain? 
and whom could ye be bound to serve barring Masther 
Phelim, that’s lain in the same cradle with yees ” 

“Is not Victorine here, mother?” still restlessly de- 
manded Lanty. 

‘‘Never you heed Victorine,” replied she. “Sure she 
may have a little arrant of her own, and ye might have 
a word for the old mother that never parted with you be- 
fore.” 

‘‘ You are not going, mother!” h^ exclaimed. 

” ’Tis my heart that will go with j'-ou and Masther Phe- 
lim, my jewel; but Madame la Comtesse will have it that 
this weeny little darlint ’’—caressing the child in her lap 
— ” could never bear the cold of that bare and dissolute 


10 


A MODERN TELEMACIIUS, 


place in the north you are bound for, and old Madame la 
Marquise, her mother, would be mad entirely if all the 
children left her; but our own lady can’t quit the little 
one without leaving his own nurse, Honor, with him!” 

” That’s news to me intirely, mother,” said Lanty ; “bad 
luck to it!” 

Honor laughed that half- proud, half- sad laugh of mothers 
when their sons outgrow them. “Fine talking! Much he 
cares for the old mother if he can see the young girl go 
with him. ’ ’ 

For Lanty ’s eyes had brightened at sight of a slight lit- 
tle figure, trim to the last degree, with a jaunty little cap 
on her dark hair, gay trimmings to the black apron, dainty 
shoes and stockings, that came tripping down the path. 
His tongue instantly changed to French from what he 
called English, as, in pathetic, insinuating modulations, he 
demanded how she could be making him weary his very 
heart out. 

” Who bade you?” she retorted. ‘‘I never asked you to 
'Waste y-our time here!” 

” And will ye not give me a glance of the ey^es that have 
made a cinder of my poor heart, when I am going away 
into the desolate North, among the bears and the savages 
and the heretics?” 

‘‘ There will be plenty of eyes there to look at your fine 
green-and-gold, for the sake of the Paris cut ; though a 
great lumbering fellow like you does not know how to 
show it off !” 

“ And if I bring back a heretic b?'u to break the heart of 
the mother, will it not be all the fault of the cruelty' of 
Mademoiselle Victorine?” 

Here Estelle, unable to withstand Lanty ’s piteous in- 
tonations, broke in, “Never mind, Laurent, Victorine 
goes with us. She went to be measured for a new pair of 
shoes on purpose!” 

“ Ah! I thought I should disembarrass myself of a great 
troublesome Irishman!” 

“ No,” retorted the boy; “you knew Laurent was going, 
for Mail re Hebert had just come in to say he must have a 
lackey’s suit!” 

“Yes,” said Estelle, “that was when you took me in 
your arms and kissed me, and said y^ou would follow Ma- 
dame la Comtesse to the end of the world.” 

The old nurse laughed heartily', but Victorine cried out, 
“Does mademoiselle think I am going to follow naugh ty’- 
little girls who invent follies? it is still free to me to 
change my mind. Poor Simon Claquette is gnawing his 
heart out, and he is to be left concierge 

The clock at the palace chimed eleven, Estelle took her 


^ MODERN TELEMACHUS, 


11 


brother's hand, Honor rose with little Jacques in her arms, 
Victorine paced beside her, and Lanty as La Jeunesse fol 
lowed, puffing out his breast and wielding his cane, as they 
all went home to dejeuner. 

Twenty-nine years before the opening of this narrative, 
just after the battle of Boyne Water had ruined the hopes 
of the Stuarts in Ireland, Sir Ulick Burke had attended 
James II. in his flight from Waterford; and his wife had 
followed him, attended by her two faithful servants, Pat- 
rick Callaghan and his wife. Honor, carrjung her mistress’ 
child on her bosom, and her own on her back. 

Sir Ulick, or Le Chevalier Bourke, as the French called 
him, had no scruple in taking service in the armies of 
Louis XIV. Callaghan followed him everywhere, while 
Honor remained a devoted attendant on her lady, doubly 
bound to her by exile and sorrow. 

Little Uli:;k Burke’s foster-sister died, perhaps because 
she had always been made second to him through all 
the hardships and exposure of the journey. Other babes 
of both lady and nurse had succumbed to the mortality 
which beset the children of that generation, and the only 
survivors besides the eldest Burke and one daughter were 
the two youngest of each mother, and they had arrived so 
nearly at the same time that Honor Callaghan could again 
be foster-mother to Phelim Burke, a sickly child, reared 
with great difficulty. 

The family were becoming almost French. Sir Ulick 
was an intimate friend of one of the noblest men of the 
day, James Fitz -James, Marshal Duke of Berwick, who 
united military talent, almost equal to that of his uncle of 
Marlborough, to an unswerving honor and integrity very 
rare in those evil times. Under him Sir Ulick fought in 
the campaigns that finally established the House of Bour- 
bon upon the throne of Spain, and the younger Ulick, or 
Ulysse, as his name had been classicalized and Frenchified, 
was making his first campaign as a mere boy at the time 
of the battle of Almanza, that solitary British defeat, for 
which our national consolation is that the French were 
commanded by an Englishman, the Duke of Berwick, and 
the English by a Frenchman, the Huguenot Rubigne, Earl 
of Galway. The first English charge was, however, fatal 
to the Chevalier Bourke, who fell mortally wounded, and 
in the endeavor to carry him off the field, the faithful Cal- 
laghan likewise fell. Sir Ulick lived long enough to be 
visited by the duke, and to commend his children to his 
friend’s protection. 

Berwick was held to be dry and stiff, but he was a faith- 
ful friend, and well redeemed his promise. The eldest son, 
young as he was, obtained as wife the daughter of the 


n 


A 3I0DEm TELEMACHUS. 


Marquise de Varennes, and soon distinguished himself 
both in war and policy, so as to receive the title of Comte 
de Bourke. 

The French Church was called on to provide for the 
other two children. The daughter, Alice, became a nun in 
one of the Parisian convents, with promises of promotion. 
The younger son, Phelim, was weakly in health, and of in- 
tellect feeble, if not deficient, and was almost dependent 
on the devoted care and tenderness of his foster brother, 
Laurent Callaghan. Nobody was startled when Berwick’s 
interest procured for the dull boy of ten years old the Ab- 
bey of St. Eudoce in Champagne. To be sure the responsi- 
bilities were not great, for the abbey had been burned down 
a century and a half ago by the Huguenots, and there had 
never been any monks in it since, so the only effect was 
that little Phelim Burke went by the imposing title of 
Monsieur I’Abbe de St. Eudoce, and his family enjoyed as 
much of the revenues of the estates of the abbey as the in- 
tendant thought proper to transmit to them. He was, to 
a certain degree, ecclesiastically educated, having just 
memory enough to retain for recitation the tasks that 
Lanty helped him to learn, and he could copy the themes 
or translations made for him by his faithful companion. 

Neither boy had the least notion of unfairness or decep- 
tion in this arrangement; it was only the natural service 
of the one to the other, and if it were perceived by the 
fathers of the seminary, whither Lanty daily conducted 
the young abbot, they winked at it. Nor, though the 
quick-witted Lanty thus acquired a considerable amount 
of learning, no idea occurred to him of availing himself of 
it for his own advantage. It sat ou tside him, as it were, 
for “ Masther Phelim’s” use; and he no more thought of 
applj'ing it to his own elevation than he did of wearing the 
soutane he brushed for his young master. 

The abbe Avas now five-and-twenty, had received the 
tonsure, and had been admitted to minor orders, but there 
Avas no necessity for him to proceed any further unless 
higher promotion should be accorded to him in recompense 
of his brother’s services. He Avas a gentle, amiable being, 
not at all fit to take care of himself ; and since the death of 
his mother he had been the charge of his brother and 
sister-in-laAv, or perhaps, more correctly speaking, of the 
Dowager Marquise de Varennes, for all the branches of 
the family lived together in the Hotel de Varennes at Paris, 
or its chateau in tlie country, and the fine old lady ruled 
over all, her son and son-in- laAv being often absent, as Avas 
the case at present. 

A fresh Europen Avar had been provoked by the ambi- 
tion of the second Avife of Philip V, of Spain, the prince for 


A MODERN TELEMACffUS. 


13 


whose cause Berwick had fought. This queen. Elizabeth 
Farnese, wanted rank and dominion for her own son; 
moreover, Philip looked with longing eyes at his native 
kingdom of France, all claim to which he had resigned 
when Spain was bequeathed to him ; but now that only a 
sickly child, Louis XV., stood betw^een him and the succes- 
sion in right of blood, he felt his rights superior to those 
of the Duke of Orleans. Thus Spain was induced to be- 
come hostile to France, and to commence the war known 
as that of the Quadruple Alliance. 

While there was still hope of accommodation, the Comte 
de Bourke had been sent as a special envoy to Madrid, and 
there continued even after the war had broken out, and 
the Duke of Berwick, resigning all the estates he had re- 
ceived from the gratitude of Philip V., had led an army 
across the frontier. 

The count had, however, just been appointed ambassa- 
dor to Sweden, and was anxious to be joined by his family 
on the way thither. 

The tidings had created great commotion. Madame de 
Varennes looked on Sweeden as an Ultima Thule of frost 
and snow, but knew that a lady’s presence was essential to 
the display required of an embassador. She strove, how- 
ev^er, to have the children left with her ; but her daughter 
declared that she could not part with Estelle, who was al- 
ready a companion and friend, and that Ulysse must be 
with his father, who longed for his eldest son, so that only 
little Jacques, a delicate child, was to be left to console his 
grandmother. 


CHAPTER II. 

A JACOBITE WAIF. 

“ Sae now he’s o’er the floods sae gray, 

And Lord Maxwell has ta’en his good-night.” 

Lord Maxwell’s Oood-night. 

Madame la Comtesse de Bourke was by no means a 
helpless fine lady. She had several times accompanied her 
husband on his expeditions, and had only not gone with 
him to Madrid because he did not expect to be long absent, 
and she sorely rued the separation. 

She was very busy in her own room, superintending the 
packing, and assisting in it, where her own clever fingers 
were more effective than those of her maids. She was in 
her robe de chambre, a dark-blue wrapper embroidered with 
white, and put on more neatly than was always the case 
with French ladies in deshabille. The hoop, long, stiff 
stays, rich brocade robe, and fabric of powdered hair were 
equally unaiitable to ease or exertion, and consequently 


14 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


were seldom assumed till late in the day, when the toilet 
was often made in public. 

So Madame de Bourke’s hair was simply rolled out of 
her way, and she appeared in her true colors, as a little, 
brisk, bonny woman, with no a<^tual beauty, but ver.y ex- 
pressive light-gray eyes, furnished witli intensely long, 
black lashes, and a sweet, mobile, lively countenance. 

Estelle was trying to amuse little Jacques, and prevent 
him from trotting between the boxes, putting all sorts of 
undesirable goods into them ; and Ulysse had collected his 
toys, and was pleading earnestly that a headless wooden 
horse, and a kite twice as tall as himself, of Lanty’s manu- 
facture, might go with them. 

He was told that another cerf-volant should be made for 
him at the journey’s end; but was only partially consoled, 
and his mother was fain to compound for a box of woolly 
lambs. Estelle winked away a tear when her doll was re- 
jected, a wooden, highly-painted lady, bedizened in bro- 
cade, and so dear to her soul that it was hard to be told 
that she was too old for such toys, and that the Swedes 
would be shocked to see the embassador’s daughter em- 
bracing a doll. She had, however, to preserve her charac- 
ter of a reasonable child, and tried to derive consolation 
from the permission to bestow “mademoiselle” upon the 
concierge's little sick daughter, who would be sure to cher- 
ish her duly. 

“But, oh, mamma, I pray you to let me take my 
book!” 

‘ ‘ Assuredly, my child. Let us see 1 What ? Telemaque ? 
Not ‘ Prince Percinet and Princess Gracieuse?’ ” 

“ I am tired of them, mamma.” 

“Nor Madame d’Aulnoy’s Fairy Tales?” 

“ Oh, no, thank you, mamma; I love nothing so well as 
Telemaque.” 

“ Thou art a droll child,” said her mother. 

“ Ah, but we are going to be like Telemaque.” 

“ Heaven forefend,” said the poor lady. 

“ Yes, dear mamma, I am glad you are going with us in- 
stead of staying at home to weave and unweave webs. If 
Penelope had been like you she would have gone!” 

“Take care, is not Jacques acting Penelope?” said Ma- 
dame de Bourke, unable to help smiling at her little daugh- 
ter’s glib mythology, while going to the rescue of the em- 
broidery silks, in which her youngest son was entangling 
himself. 

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a 
message was brought that the Countess of Nithsdale 
begged the favor of a few minutes’ conversation in private, 
with madame. The Scottish title fared better on the lips 


15 


A MODERN TELEiMACHUS. 

of La Jeunesse than it would have done on those of his 
predecessor. There was considerable intimacy among all 
the Jacobite exiles in and about Paris; and Winih'ed, 
Countess of Nithsdale, though living a very quiet and se- 
cluded life, was held in high estimation among all who rec- 
ollected the act of wifely heroism by which she had rescued 
h(*r husband from the block. 

Madame de Bourke bade the maids carry off the little 
Jacques, and Ulysse followed ; but Estelle, who had often 
listened with rapt attention to the story of the escape, and 
longed to feast her eyes on the heroine, remained in her 
corner, usefully employed in disentangling the embroil- 
ment of silks, and with the illustrations to her beloved 
Telemaque as a resource in case the conversation should be 
tedious. Children who have hundreds of picture-books to 
rustle through can little guess how their predecessors could 
once dream over one. 

Estelle made her low reverence unnoticed, and watched 
with eager eyes as the slight figure entered, clad in the 
stately costume that was regarded as proper respect to her 
hostess; but the long, loose sack of blue silk Avas faded, 
the feuille-morte velvet petticoat frayed, the lace on the 
neck and sleeves washed and mended ; there were no jewels 
on the sleeves, though the long gloves fitted exquisitely, no 
gems in the buckles of the high-heeled shoes, and the only 
ornament in the carefully rolled and powdered hair a 
white rose. Her face was thin and worn, with pleasant 
brown eyes. Estelle could not think her as beautiful as 
Calypso inconsolable for Ulysses, or Antiope receiving the 
boar’s head. “I know she is better than either,” thought 
the little maid; “ but I wish she was more like Minerva.” 

The countesses met with the lowest of courtesies, and 
apologies on the one side for intrusion, on the other for 
deshabille, so they concluded with an embrace really affec- 
tionate, though consideration for powder made it necessarily 
somewhat theatrical in appearance. 

These were the stiffest of days, just before formality had 
become unbearable, and the reaction of simplicity had set 
in ; and Estelle had undone two desperate knots in the 
green and yellow silks before the preliminary coinpliments 
were over, and Lady Nithsdale arrived at the pqint. 

“ Madame is about to rejoin Monsieur son Ma" 

“I am about to have that happiness.” . ^ 

“ That is the reason I have been bold eno . 
her.” ■ , 

“Do not mention it. It is always a ^nt to see Ma- 
dame la Com tesse.” V, ^ -i. ♦ 

“ Ah 1 what will madame say when lears that it is to 
ask a great favor of her.” 


16 A MOJDEBN TELE3IACHUS. 

“ Madame may reckon on me for whatever she would 
command.” 

“ If you can grant it — oh! madame,” cried the Scottish 
countess, beginning to drop her formality in her eagerness, 
“ we shall be forever beholden to you, and you will make 
a wounded heart to sing, besides perhaps saving a noble 
young spirit. ’ ’ 

“Madame makes me impatient to hear what she would 
have of me,” said the French countess, becoming a little on 
her guard, as the wife of a diplomatist, recollecting, too, 
that peace with George I. might mean war with the 
Jacobites. 

“ I know not whether a young kinsman of my lord's has 
ever been presented to madame. His name is Arthur 
Maxwell Hope; but we call him usually by his Christian 
name.” 

“A tall, dark, handsome youth, almost like a Spaniard, 
or a picture by Vandyke? It seems to me that I have seen 
him with Monsieur le Comte.” (Madame de Bourke could 
not venture on such a word as Nithsdale.) 

“ Madame is right. The mother of the boy is a Maxwell, 
a cousin not far removed from my lord, but he could not 
hinder her from being given in marriage. as second wife to 
Sir David Hope, already an old man. He was good to her. 
but when he died the sons by the first wife were harsh and 
unkind to her and to her son, of whom they had always 
been jealous. The eldest was a creature of my Lord Stair, 
and altogether a Whig; indeed, he now holds an office at 
the court of the Elector of Hanover, and has been created 
one of his peers.” (The scorn with which the gentle AVini- 
fred uttered those words was worth seeing, and the other 
noble lady gave a little derisive laugh.) “These half 
brothers declared that Lady Hope was nurturing the young 
Artliur in Toryism and disaffection, and they made it a 
plea for separating him from her, and sending him to nn 
old minister who kept a school, and who was very se\ ere 
and even cruel to the poor boy. But I am wearying ina- 
dame.” 

“ Oh, no; I listen with the deepest interest."* 

‘ ‘ Finally, when the king was expected in Scotland, and 
men’s minds were full of anger and bitterness, as well as 
spirit, the boy— he was then only fourteen years 
'^d of his grandfather’s having fought at Kil- 

.ecia.... used language which the tutor pronounced 

treasonaux. ixe was punished and confined to his room; 
but in the nigh, ’ ^ made his escape and joined the royal 
army. 'My hus, d was grieved to see him, told him he 
had no right to " tical opinions, and tried to send him 
home in time to . his peace before all was lost. Alas ! 


A J/ODEBX TELEJIACHUS. 


17 


no. The little fellow did, indeed, pass out safel}’ from 
Preston, but only to join my Lord Mar. He was amon^ 2 : 
the gentlemen who embarked at Banff: and when my lord, 
by Heaven’s mercy, had escaped from the Tower of Lon- 
don, and we arrived at Paris, almost the first person we 
saw was little Arthur, whom we thought to have been safe 
at home. We have kept him with us, and I contrived to 
let his mother know that he is living, for she had mourned 
him as among the slain.” 

Poor mother!” 

‘‘You may well pity her, madame. She writes to me 
that if Arthur had returned at once from Preston, as my 
lord advised, all would have been passed over as a school- 
boy frolic; and, indeed, he has never been attainted ; but 
there is nothing that his eldest brother. Lord Burnside as 
they call him, dreads so much as that it should be known 
that one of his family was engaged in the campaign, or that 
he is keeping such ill company as we are. Therefore, at 
her request, we have never called him Hope, but let him 
go by our name of Maxwell, which is his by baptism ; and 
now she tells me that if he could make his way to Scotland, 
not as if coming from Paris or Bar-le-Duc, but merely as if 
traveling on the Continent, his brother would consent to 
his return. ’ ’ 

“Would she be willing that he should live under the 
usurper?” 

“ Madame, to tell you the truth.” said Lady Nithsdale, 
“the Lady Hope is not one to heed the question of usurp- 
ers, so long as her son is safe and a good lad. Nay, for 
my part, we all lived peaceably and happily enough under 
Queen Anne; and, by all I hear, so they still do at homo 
under the Elector of Hanover.” 

“The regent has acknowledged him,” put in the Frencli 
lady. 

“Well,” said the poor exile, “I know my lord felt that 
it was his duty to obey the summons of his lawful sov- 
ereign, and that, as he said when he took up arms, one can 
only do one’s duty and take the consequences; but, oli ! 
when I look at the misery and desolation tliat has com^ sof 
it, when I think of the wives not so happy as I am, w^ 1 


see my dear lord wearing out his life in banishm^ a 
think of our dear home and our poor people, I ar ed 

to wonder whether it were indeed a duty, or ..noro 

were any right to call on brave men without stead- 

fast purpose not to abandon them I” 


“ It would have been very different if the i e of Ber- 
wick had led the way,” observed Madame de Bourke. 
“ Then my husband would have gone, but, being French 
subjects, honor stayed both him and th duke as long as 


18 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


the regent made no move.’’ The good lady, of course, 
thought that the marshal duke and her own count must 
secure victory; but Lady Nithsdale was intent on her own 
branch of the subject, and did not pursue “what might 
have been.” 

“After all,” she said, “poor Arthur, at fourteen, could 
have no true political convictions. He merely fled because 
he was harshly treated, heard his grandfather branded as 
a traitor, and had an enthusiasm for my husband, who had 
been kind to him. It was a mere boy’s escapade, and if he 
had returned home when my lord bade him it would only 
have been remembered as such. He knows it now, and I 
frankly tell you, madame, that what he has seen of our 
exiled court has not increased his ardor in the cause.” 

“ Alas, no,” said Madame de Bourke. “ If the Chevalier 
de St. George were other than he is, it would be easier to 
act in his behalf.” 

“ And you agree w*ith me, madame,” continued the vis- 
itor, “ that nothing can be worse or more hopeless for a 
youth than the life to which we are constrained here, with 
our whole shadow of hope in intrigue; and for our men, 
no occupation worthy of their sex. We women are not 
so ill off, with our children and domestic affairs; but it 
breaks my heart to see brave gentlemen’s lives thus 
wasted. We have done our best for Arthur. He has 
studied with one of our good clergy, and my lord him 
self has taught him to fence: but we cannot treat him 
any longer as a boy, and I know not what is to be his 
future, unless we can return him to his own country.” 

*• Our army,” suggested Madame de Bourke. 

“ Ah! but he is Protestant.” 

“A heretic!” exclaimed the lady, drawing herself up. 
“But ” 

“ Oh, do not refuse me on that account. He is a good 
lad, and has lived enough among Catholics to keep his 
opinions in the background. But you understand that it 
is another reason for wishing to convey him, if not to Scot- 
land, to some land like Sweden or Prussia, where his faith 
would not be a bar to his promotion.” 

“What is it you would have me do?” said Madame de 
Pourke, "^ore coldly. 

lame would permit him to be included in her 
as about to join the embassador's suit, and thus 
conduct nim to Sweden: Lady Hope would find means to 
communicate with him from thence, the poor young man 
would be sa\ 1 from a ruined career, and the heart of the 
widow and i her would bless you forever.” 

Madame d irke was touched, but she was a prudent 
woman, and ^ d to ask whether the youth had shown 


A MODERX TELEMACHUS. 


19 


any tendency to run into temptation, from which Lady 
Nithsdale wished to remove him. 

“Oh, no,” she answered; “he was a perfectl}" good, 
docile lad, though high-spirited, submissive to the earl, 
and a kind playfellow to her little girls ; it was his very 
excellence that made it so unfortunate that he should thus 
be stranded in early youth in consequence of one boyish 
folly.” 

The countess began to yield. She thought ho might go 
as secretary to her lord, and she owned that if he was a 
brave young man, he would be an addition to her little es- 
cort, which only numbered two men besides her brother- 
in-law, the dbbe, Avho was of almost as little account as his 
young nephew. “ But I should warn you, madame,” added 
Madame de Bourke, “that it may be a very dangerous 
journey. I own to you, though I would not tell my poor 
mother, that my heart fails me when I think of it, and were 
it not for the express commands of their father, I would 
not risk my poor children on it.” 

“ I do not think you will find Sweden otherwise than a 
cheerful, pleasant abode, ” said Lady Nithsdale. 

“Ah! if we were only in Sweden, or with my husband, 
all would be well!” replied the other lady; “ but w^e have 
to pass through the mountains, and the Catalans are al- 
ways ill-alfected to us French.” 

“Nay; but you are a party of women, and belong to an 
embassador!” was the answer. 

“ What do those robbers care for that? We are all the 
better prey for them ! I have heard histories of Spanish 
cruelty and lawlessness that would make you shudder! 
You cannot guess at the terrible presentiments that have 
haunted me ever since I had my husband’s letter.” 

“ There is danger everywhere, dear friend,” said Lady 
Nithsdale, kindly; “but God finds a way for us through 
all.” 

“Ah! you have experienced it,” said Madame de Bourke. 
“Let us proceed to the affairs. I only thought I should 
tell you the truth. ’ ’ 

Lady Nithsdale answered for the courage of her protege, 
and it was further determined that he should be presented 
to her that evening by the earl, at the farewell reception 
which Madame de Varennes was to hold on her daughter’s 
behalf, when it could be determined in what capacity he 
should be named in the passport. 

Estelle, who had been listening with all her ears, and 
trying to find a character in Fenelon’s romance to be rep- 
resented by Arthur Hope, now further heard it explained 
that the party were to go southward to meet her father at 
one of the Mediterranean ports, as the English government 


20 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


were so suspicious of Jacobites that he did not venture on 
taking the direct route by sea, but meant to travel through 
Germany. Madame de Bourke expected to meet her 
brother at Avignon, and to obtain his advice as to her fur- 
ther route. 

Estelle heard this with great satisfaction. “ We shall go 
to the Mediterranean Sea and be in danger,” she said to 
lierself, unfolding the map at the beginning of her Tele 
maque; ” that is quite right! Perhaps we shall see Calyp- 
so’s Island.” 

She begged hard to be allowed to sit up that evening to 
see the hero of the escape from the Tower of London, as 
well as the traveling companion destined for her, and she 
prevailed, for mamma pronounced that she had been very 
sage and reasonable all day, and the grandmamma, who 
was so soon to part \vith her, could refuse her nothing. 
So she was full dressed, with hair curled, and permitted to 
stand by the tall, high-backed chair where the old lady 
sat to receive her visitors. 

The Marquise de Varennes was a small, withered woman, 
with keen eyes, and a sort of sparkle of manner, and power 
of setting people at ease, that made her the more charming 
the older she grew. An experienced eye could detect that 
she retained the costume of the prime of Louis XIV., when 
head-dresses were less high than that which her daughter 
was obliged to wear. For the last two mortal hours of that 
busy day had poor Madame de Bourke been compelled to 
sit under the hands of the hairdresser, who was building 
up. with paste and powder and the like, an original con 
ception or his, namely, a Northern landscape, with snow 
laden trees, drifts of snow, diamond icicles, and even a 
cottage beside an ice-bound stream. She could ill spare 
the time, and longed to be excused ; but the artist had 
begged so hard to be allowed to carry out his brilliant and 
unique idea, this last time of attending on Madame TEm 
bassadrice, that there was no resisting him, and perhaps 
her strange forebodings made her less willing to inflict a 
disappointment on the poor man. It would have been 
strange to contrast the fabric of vanity building up 
outside her head with the melancholy bodings within it, 
as she sat motionless under the hairdresser’s fingers : but 
at the end she roused herself to smile gratefully, and give 
the admiration that was felt to be due to the monstrosity 
that crowned her. Forbearance and Christian patience 
may be exercised even on a toilet a la Louis XV. Long 
practice enabled her to w^alk about, seat herself, rise and 
courtesy without detriment to the edifice, or bestowing the 
powder either on her neighbors or on the richly -flowered 
white brocade she wore; w^hile she received the compli 


A MODERN TELEiMACHUS. 


21 


merits, one after another, of ladies in even more gorgeous 
array, and gentlemen in velvet coats, adorned with gold 
lace, cravats of exquisite fabric, and diamond shoe-buck- 
les. 

Phelim Burke, otherwise I’Abbe de St. Eudoce, stood 
near her. He was a thin, yellow, and freckled youth, with 
sandy hair and typical Irish features, but without their 
drollery, and his face was what might have been expected 
in a half-starved, half- clad gossoon in a cabin, rather than 
surmounting a silken soutane in a Parisian saZon ,* but he 
had a pleasant smile when kindly addressed by his friends. 

Presently Lady Nithsdale drew near, accompanied by a 
tall, grave gentleman, and bringing with them a still tailer 
youth, with the stiffest of backs and the longest of legs, 
who, when presented, made a bow apparently from the 
end of his spine, like Estelle’s lamented Dutch jointed doll 
when made to sit down. Moreover, he was more shabbily 
dressed than any other gentleman present, with a general 
outgrown look about his coat, and darns in his silk stock- 
ings; and though they were made by the hand of a count- 
ess, that did not add to their elegance. And as he stood as 
stiff as a ramrod or as a sentinel, Estelle’s good-breeding 
was all called into play, and her mother’s heart quailed as 
she said to herself, “ A great, raw Scot ! What can be done 
with him?” 

Lord Nithsdale spoke for him, thinking he had better go 
as secretary, and showing some handwriting of good qual- 
ity. “ Did he know any languages?” 

“French, English, Latin, and some Greek. And, ma- 
dame,” added Lord Nithsdale, “not only is his French 
much better than mine, as you would hear if the boy durst 
open his mc*uth, but our broad Scotch is so like Swedish 
that he will almost be an interpreter there.” 

However hopeless Madame de Bourke felt, she smiled 
and professed herself rejoiced to hear it, and it was further 
decided that Arthur Maxwell Hope, aged eighteen, Scot by 
birth, should be mentioned among those or the embassa- 
dor’s household for whom she demanded passports. Her 
position rendered this no matter of difficulty, and it was 
wiser to give the full truth to the home authorities; but as 
it was desirable that it should not be reported to the En- 
glish government that Lord Burnside's brother was in the 
suit of the Jacobite Comte de Bourke, he was only to be 
known to the public by his first name, which was not much 
harder to French lips than Maxwell or Hope. 

“ Tall and black and awkward,” said Estelle, describing 
him to her brother. “ 1 shall not like him— I shall call him 
Phalante instead of Arthur,” 


22 A MODEEN TELEMACHUS. 

“ Arthur," said Ulysse; “King Arthur Avas turned into 
a crow!” 

“ Well, this Arthur is like a crow — a great, black, skinny 
crow, with torn feathers.” 


CHAPTER III. 

ON THE RHONE. 

“ Fairer scenes the opening eye 
Of the day can scarce descry, 

Fairer sight he looks not on 
Thau the pleasant banks of Rhone.” 

Archbi&hop Trench. 

Long legs may be in the abstract an advantage, but 
scarcely so in what was called in France une grande Berline. 
This was the favorite traveling-carriage of the eighteenth 
century, and consisted of a close carriage or coach proper, 
with arrangements on the top for luggage, and behind it 
another seat open, but provided with a large leathern 
hood, and in front another place for the coachman and his 
companions. Each seat was wide enough to hold three 
persons, and thus within sat Madame de Bourke, her 
brother-in-law, the two children, Arthur Hope, and Made- 
moiselle Julienne, an elderly woman of the artisan class, 
femme de chambre to the countess. Victorine, who was at- 
tendant on the children, Avould travel under the hood with 
two more maids ; and the front seat would be occupied by 
the coachman, Laurence Callaghan— otherwise La Jeunesse 
-and Maitre Hebert, the maitre d'hotel. Fain would 
Arthur have shared their elevation, so far as ease and com- 
fort of mind and body went, and the countess’ wishes may 
have gone the same way ; but besides that it Avould have 
been an insult to class him with the servants, the horses of 
the home establishment, driven by their own coachman, 
took the party the first stage out of Paris; and though 
afterward the post-horses or mules, six in number, would 
be ridden by their own postilions, there was such i\n 
amount of luggage as to leave little or no space for a third 
person outside. 

It had been a perfect sight to see the carriage packed, 
when Arthur, convoyed by Lord Nithsdale, arrived in the 
courtyard of the Hotel de Varennes. Madame de Bourke 
w^as taking with her all the paraphernalia of an embassa- 
dor —a service of plate, in a huge chest stowed under the 
seat, a portrait of Philip V., in a gold frame set with Mia 
monds, being included among her jewelry— and Lord 
Nithsdale, standing by, could not but dryly remark; 
“Yonder is more than we brought wdth us, Arthur.” 

The two walked up and down the court together, un- 
willing to intrude on the parting which, as they well knew 


A MODERN TELEMACHVS, 


28 


would be made in floods of tears. Sad enough indeed it 
was, for Madame de Varennes was advanced in years, 
and her daughter had not only to part with her, but with 
the baby Jacques, for an unknown space of time; but the 
self-command and restraint of grief for the sake of each 
other was absolutely unknown. It was a point of honor 
and sentiment to weep as much as possible, and it would 
Have been regarded as frigid and unnatural not to go on 
crying too much to eat or speak for a whole day before- 
hand, and at least two afterward. 

So when the travelers descended the steps to take their 
seats, each face was enveloped in a handkerchief, and 
there were passionate embraces, literal pressings to the 
hreast, and violent sobs, as each victim, one after the 
other, ascended the carriage steps and fell back on the 
seat; while in the background Honor Callaghan was utter 
ing Irish wails over the abbeand Laurence, and thelament- 
ame sound set the little lap-dog and the big watch-dog 
howling in chorus. Arthur Hope, probably as miserable 
as any of them in parting with his friend and hero, was 
only standing like a stake, and an embarrassed stake (if 
that be possible), and Lord Nithsdale, though anxious for 
him, heartily pitying all, was nevertheless haunted by a 
queer recollection of Lance and his dog, and thinking that 
French do^ were not devoid of sympathy, and that tlie 
part of Cr^ was left for Arthur. 

However, the last embrace was given, and the ladies 
were all packed in, while the abbe, with his breast heaving 
with sobs, his big hat in one hand and a huge silk pocket 
handkerchief in the other, did not forget his manners, hut 
waved to Arthur to ascend the steps first. “Secretary, 
not guest. You must remember that another time,” said 
Lord Nithsdale. “God bless you, my dear lad, and bring 
you safe back to bonny Scotland, a true and leal heart.” 

Arthur wrung his friend’s hand once more, and disap- 
peared into the vehicle; Nurse Honor made one more rush, 
and uttered another “ Ohone ” over Abbe Phelim, who fol- 
lowed into the carriage; the door was shut; there was a 
last wail over “ Lanty, the sunbeam of me heart,” as he 
climbed to the box-seat; the harness jingled; coachman 
and postilions cracked their whips, the impatient horses 
dashed out at the porte cochere; and Arthur, after en- 
deavoring to dispose of his legs, looked about him and saw, 
opposite to him, Madame de Bourke lying back in the 
corner in a transport of grief, one arm round her daughter, 
and her little son lying across her lap, both sobbing and 
crying; and on one side of them the ahbe, sunk in his 
corner, his yellow .cilk handkerchief over his face; on the 
other. Mademoiselle Julienne, who was crying too, but 


24 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


with more moderation, perhaps more out of propriety ot* 
from infection than from actual grief: at any rate she had 
more of her senses about her than any one else, and man- 
aged to dispose of the various loose articles that had been 
thrown after the travelers, in pockets and under cushions. 
Arthur would have assisted, but only succeeded in tread- 
ing on various toes and eliciting some small shrieks, which 
disconcerted him all the more, and made Mademoiselle 
Julienne look daggers at him, as she relieved her lady ol' 
little Ulysse, lifting him to her own knee, where, as he was 
absolutely exhausted with crying, he fell asleep. 

Arthur hoped the others would do the same, and perhaps 
there was more dozing than they would have confessed ; 
but whenever there was a movement, and some familiar 
object in the street of Paris struck the eye of madame, the 
abbe, or Estelle, there was a little cry, and they went off 
on a fresh snore. 

“Poor, wretched, weak creatures!” he said to himself, 
as he thought over the traditions of Scottish heroic women 
on whose heroism he had gloated. And j^et he was wrong ; 
Madame de Bourke was capable of as much resolute self- 
devotion as any of the ladies on the other side of the chan- 
nel, but tears were a tribute required by the times. So 
she gave way to them — just as no doubt women of former 
days saw nothing absurd in bottling them. 

Arthur’s position among all these weeping figures was 
extremely awkward, all the more so that he carried his 
sword upright between his legs, not daring to disturb the 
lachrymose company enough to dispose of it in the sword 
case appropriated to weapons. He longed to take out the 
little pocket Virgil, which Lord Nithsdale had given him, 
so as to have some occupation for his eyes, but he durst 
not, lest he should be thought rude, till, at a halt at a 
cabaret to water the horses, the striking of a clock re- 
minded the abbe that it was the time for reading the Hours, 
and when the breviary was taken out, Arthur thought his 
book might follow it. 

By and by there was a halt at Corbeil, where was the 
nunnery of Alice Bourke, of whom her brother and sister- 
in-law were to take leave. They, with the children, were 
set down there, while Arthur went on with the carriage 
and servants to the inn to dine. 

It was the first visit of Ulysse to the convent, and he was 
much amazed at peeping at his aunt’s hooded face through 
a grating. However, the family were admitted to dine in 
the refectory; but poor Madame de Bourke was fit for 
nothing but to lie on a bed, attended affectionately by her 
sister-in-law, Soeur Ste. Madeleine. 

“ O sister, sister,” was her cry, “ I must say it to you— 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


26 


I would not to my poor mother— that I have the most hor 
rible presentiments I shall never see her again, nor my 
poor child. No, nor my husband; I knew it when he took 
leave of me for that terrible Spain. ’ ’ 

“Yet you see he is safe, and you will be with him, sis- 
ter,” returned the nun. 

“ Ah! that I knew I should I But think of those fearful 
Pyrenees, and the bandits that infest them— and all the 
valuables we carry with us!” 

“ Surely I heard that Marshal Berwick had offered you 
an escort.” 

“ That will only attract the attention of the brigands and 
bring them in greater force. O sister, sister, my heart 
sinks at the thought of my poor children in the hands of 
those savages! I dream of them every night.” 

“ The suit of an embassador is sacred.” 

“Ah! but what do they care for that, the robbers? I 
know destruction lies that way!” 

“Nay, sister, this is not like you. You always were 
brave and trusted Heaven, when you had to follow 
Ulick.” 

“ Alas! never had I this sinking of heart, which tells me 
I shall be torn from my poor children and never rejoin 
him.” 

Sister Ste. Madeleine caressed and prayed with the poor 
lady, and did her utmost to reassure and comfort her, 
promising a neuvaine for her safe journey and meeting 
with her husband. n 

‘ ‘ For the children, ’ ’ said the poor countess. ‘ ‘ I know I 
never shall see him more.” 

However, the cheerfulness of the bright Irishwoman had 
done her some good, and she was better by the time she 
rose to pursue her journey. Estelle and Ulysse had been 
much petted by the nuns, and when all met again, to the 
great relief of Arthur, he found continuous weeping was 
not de rigueur. When they got in again he was able to get 
rid of his sword, and only trod on two pair of toes and got 
his legs twice tumbled over. 

Moreover, Madame de Bourke had recovered the faculty 
of making pretty speeches, and when the weapon was put 
into the sword-case she observed, with a sad little smile, 

“ Ah, monsieur! we look to you as our defender!” 

“And me, too!” cried little Ulysse, making a violent 
demonstration with his tiny blade, and so nearly poking 
out his uncle’s eye that the article was relegated to the 
same hiding-place as “Monsieur Arture’s,” and the boy 
was assured that this was a proof of his manliness. 

He had quite recovered his spirits, and as his mother and 
sister were still exhausted with weeping he was not easy 


26 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


to manage, till Arthur took heart of grace, and, offering 
him a perch on his knee, let him look out at the window, 
explaining the objects on the way, which were all quite 
new to the little Parisian boy. Fortunately he spoke 
French well, with scarcely any foreign accent, and his 
answers to the little fellow’s eager questions, interspersed 
with observations on “ What they do in my country,” not 
only kept Ulysse occupied, but gained Estelle’s attention, 
though she was too weary and languid, and perhaps, child 
as she was, too much bound by the requirements of sym 
pathy, to manifest her interest, otherwise than by moving 
near enough to listen. 

That evening the party reached the banks of one of the 
canals which connected the rivers of France, and w’hich 
was to convey them to the I^oire and thence to the Rhone, 
in a huge, flat-bottomed barge, called a coche d'eau, a sort 
of ark, with cabins, w^here travelers could be fairly com- 
fortable, space where the berlin could be stowed away in 
the rear, and a deck with an awning where the passengers 
could disport themselves. From the days of Sully to those 
of the Revolution, this was by far the most convenient and 
secure mode of transport, especially in the south of France 
It was very convenient to the Bourke party, who w^ere 
soon established on the deck. The lady’s dress was better 
adapted to traveling than the full costume of Paris. It 
was what she called en Amazone— namely, a cloth riding 
habit faced with blue, with a short skirt, with open coat 
(nnd waistcoat, like a man’s, hair unpow’dered and tied 
behind, and a large, shady, feathered hat. Estelle wore a 
miniature of the same, and rejoiced in her freedom from 
the whalebone stiffness of her Paris life, skipping about the 
deck with her brother, like fairies, Lanty said, or, as she 
preferred to make it, ” like a nymph.” 

The water coach moved only by day, and was already 
arrived before the land one brought the weary party to 
the place of meeting— a picturesque water- side inn with a 
high roof and a trellised passage down to the landing-place, 
covered by a vine hung with clusters of ripe grapes. 

Here the travelers supped on omelets and vin ordinaire, 
and went off to bed— madame and her children in one bed, 
with the maids on the floor, and in another room the abbe 
and secretary, each in a grabat, the two men servants in 
like manner, on the floor. Such was the privacy of the 
eighteenth century, and Arthur, used to waiting on him- 
self, looked on with wonder to see the abbe like a baby in 
the hands of his faithful foster-brother, who talk(‘d away 
in a queer mixture of Irish -English and French all the 
time until they knelt down and said their prayers together 


A JIODEHN TELEMACHUS, 27 

in Latin, to which Arthur diligently closed his Protestant 
ears. 

Early the next morning the family embarked, the car- 
riage having been already put on board ; and the journey 
became very agreeable as they glided slowly, almost dream- 
ily along, borne chiefly by the current, although a couple 
of horses towed the barge, by a rope on the bank, in case 
of need, in places where the water was more sluggish, but 
nothing more was wanting in the descent toward the Med- 
iterranean. 

The accommodation was not of a high order, but when- 
ever there was a halt near a good inn Madame de Bourke 
and the children landed for the night. And in the fine 
days of early autumn the deck was delightful, and to dine 
there on the provisions brought on board was a perpetual 
feast to Estelle and Ulysse. 

The weather was beautiful, and there was a constant pan 
orama of fair sights and scenes. Harvest first, a perfectly 
new spectacle to the children, and then, as they went fur- 
ther south, the vintage. The beauty was great as they 
glided along the pleasant banks of Rhone. 

Tiers of vines on the hillsides were mostly cut and 
trimmed like currant-bushes, and disappointed Arthur, 
who had expected festoons on trellises. But this was the 
special time for beauty. The whole population, in pict- 
uresque costumes, were filling huge baskets with the clus 
ters, and snatches of their merry songs came pealing down 
to the coche d'eau, as it quietly crept along. Toward even 
ing groups were seen with piled baskets on their heads, or 
borne between them, youths and maidens crowned with 
vines, half-naked children dancing like little Bacchana- 
lians, which awoke classical recollections in Arthur, and 
delighted the children. 

Poor Madame de Bourke was still much depressed, and 
would sit dreaming half the day, except when roused by 
some need of her children, some question, or some appeal 
for her admiration. Otherwise the lovely heights, sur 
mounted with tall towers, extinguisher- capped, of castle, 
convent, or church, the clear reaches of river, the beauti 
fill turns, the little villages and towns gleaming white 
among the trees, seemed to pass unseen before her eyes, 
and she might be seen to shudder when the children pressed 
her to say how. many days it would be before they saw 
their father. 

An observer with a mind at ease might have been much 
entertained with the airs and graces that the two maids. 
Rosette and Babette, lavished upon Laurence, their only 
squire ; for Maitre Hebert was far too distant and elderly a 
person for their little coquetries. Rosette dealt in little 


28 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


terrors, and, if he was at hand, durst not step across a 
plank without his hand, was sure she heard wolves howl- 
ing in the woods, and that every peasant was “ ce barbare ’ 
while Babette, who in conjunction with Maitre Hebert, acted 
cook in case of need, plied him with dainty morsels, w’hich 
he was only too apt to bestow on the beggars, or the lean 
and hungry lad who attended on the horses. Victorine, 
on the other hand, by far the prettiest and most sprightly 
of the three, affected the most supreme indifference to him 
and his attentions, and hardly deigned to give him a civil 
word, or to accept the cornflowers and late roses he brought 
her from time to time. “Mere weeds,*’ she said. And 
the grapes and Queen Claude plums he brought her were 
always sour. Yet a something deep blue might often be 
seen peeping above her trim little apron. 

Not that Lanty had much time to disport himself in this 
fashion, for the abbe was his care, and was perfectly 
happy with a rod of his arranging, with which to fish 
over the side. Little Ulysse was of course fired with the 
same emulation, and dangled his line for an hour together. 
Estelle would have liked to do the same, but her mother 
and Mademoiselle Julienne considered the sport not con- 
venable for a demoiselle. Arthur was once or twice in- 
duced to tr}^ the abbe’s rod, but he found it as mere a to}^ 
as that of the boy; and the mere action of throwing it 
made his heart so sick with the contrast with the “ paid- 
ling ill the burns ” of his childhood, that he had no inclina- 
tion to continue the attempt, either in the slow canal or 
the broadening river. 

He was still very shy with the countess, who was not in 
spirits to set him at ease ; and the abbe puzzled him, as is 
often the case when inexperienced strangers encounter un-1 
acknowledged deficiency. The perpetual coaxing chatter, 
and undisguised familiarity of La Jeunesse with the young 
ecclesiastic did not seem to the somewhat haughty cast of 
his young Scotch mind quite becoming, and he held aloof ; 
but with the two children he was quite at ease, and was in 
truth their great resource. 

He made Ulysse’s fishing-rod, baited it, and held the boy 
when he used it — nay, he once even captured a tiny fish 
with it, to the ecstatic pity of both children. He played 
quiet games with them, and told them stories — conv(;rsed 
on Telemaque with Estelle, or read to her from his one 
book, which was “Robinson Crusoe”— a little black copy 
in pale print, with the margins almost thumbed away, 
which he had carried in his pocket when he ran away 
from school, and nearly knew by heart. 

Estelle \yas deeply interested in it, and varied in opinion 
whether she should prefer Calypso’s island or Crusoe’s, 


A iVODEBN TELFAIACHUS. 


29 


which she took for as much matter of fact as did, a cent- 
ury later, Madame Talleyrand, when, out of civility to Mr. 
Robinson, she inquired after “ce bon Vendredi." 

She inclined to think she should prefer Friday to the 
nymphs. 

“A whole quantity of troublesome womenfolk to fash 
one,” said Arthur, who had not arrived at the age of gal 
lantry. 

“You would never stay there!” said Estelle; “you 
would push us over the rock like Mentor. I think you are 
our Mentor, for I am sure you tell us a great deal, and you 
don’t scold.” 

“ Mentor was a cross old man,” said Ulysse. 

To which Estelle replied that he was a goddess; and 
Arthur very decidedly disclaimed either character, es- 
pecially the pushing over rocks. And thus thej^ glided on, 
spending a night in the great busy, bewildering city of 
Lyons, already the center of silk industry, but more inter- 
esting to the travelers as the shrine of the martyrdoms. All 
went to pray at the cathedral except Arthur. The time 
was not come for heeding church architecture -or primitive 
history; and he only wandered about the narrow, crooked 
streets, gazing at the toy piles of market produce, and 
looking at the stalls of merchandize, but as one unable- to 
purchase. His mother had indeed contrived to send him 
twenty guineas, but he knew that he must husband them 
well in case of emergencies, and Lady Nithsdale had sewn 
them all up, except one, in a belt which he wore under his 
clothes. 

He had arrived at the front of the cathedral when the 
pM'ty came out. Madame de Bourke had been weeping, 
1^ looked more peaceful than he- had yet seen her, and 
Estelle was much excited. She had bought a little lx)ok, 
which she insisted on her Mentor’s reading with her, 
though his Protestant feelings recoiled. 

“Ah!” said Estelle, “but you are not a Christian.” 

“Yes, truly, mademoiselle.” 

“ And these died for the Christian faith. Do you know 
mamma said it comforted her to pray there; for she was 
sure that whatever happened, the good God can make us 
strong, as he made the young girl who sat in the red hot 
chair. We saw her picture, and it was dreadful.^ Do read 
about her. Monsieur Arture.” 

They read, and Arthur had candor enough to perceive 
that this was the simple primitive narrative of the death of 
martyis struggling for Christian truth, long ere the days 
of superstition and division. Estelle’s face lighted with 
enthusiasm. 

“ Is it not noble to be a martyr?” she asked, 


30 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


“ Oh !” cried Ulysse ; “ to sit in a red -hot chair. It would 
be worse than to be thrown off a rock ! But there are no 
martyrs in these days, sister?” he added, pressing up to 
Arthur as if for protection. 

“ There are those who die for the right,” said Arthur, 
thinking of Lord Derwentwater, who in Jacobite eyes was 
a martyr. 

‘‘And the good God makes them strong,” said Estelle, 
in a low voice. ‘‘Mamma told me no one could tell how 
soon we might be tried, and that I was to pray that he 
would make us as brave as St. Blandina ! What do you 
think could harm us, monsieur, when we are going to my 
dear papa?” 

It was Lnnty who answered, from behind the abbe, on 
whose angling endeavors he was attending. ‘‘ Arrah, then, 
nothing at all, mademoiselle. Nothing in the four corners 
of the world shall hurt one curl of your blessed little head, 
while Lanty Callaghan is to the fore.” 

“Ah ! but you are not God, Lanty,” said Estelle, gravely ; 
“ you cannot keep things from happening.” 

‘‘The powers forbid that I should spake such blas- 
phemy!” said Lanty, taking off his hat. ‘‘ ’Twas not that 
I meant, but only that poor Lanty would die ten thousand 
deaths— Avorse than them as was thrown to the beasts— be- 
fore one of them should harm the tip of that little finger of 
yours!” 

Perhaps the same vow Avas in Arthur’s heart, though not 
spoken in such strong terms. 

Thus they drifted on till the old city of Avignon rose on 
the eyes of the travelers, a dark pile of buildings Avhere the 
massive houses, built round courts, Avith fcAv external Avin- 
dows, recalled that these had once been the palaces of car- 
dinals accustomed to the Italian city feuds, which made 
every house become a fortress. 

On the Avharf stood a gentleman in a resplendent uni- 
form of blue and gold, Avhom the children hailed, Avith cries 
of joy and outstretched arms, as their uncle. The Marquis 
de Varennes was soon on board, embracing his sister and 
her children, and conducting them to one of the great pal- 
aces, Avhere he had rooms, being then in garrison. Arthur 
folloAved, -et a sign from the lady, who presented him to 
her brother as ‘‘ Monsieur Arture— a young Scottish gen- 
tleman AA^ho will do my husband the favor of acting as his 
secretary.’ 

She used the word geyitilhomnie, which conveyed the 
sense of nobility ot blood, and the marquis acknowledged 
the introduction with one of those graceful boAA^s that Ar- 
thur hated, because they made him doubly feel the stiff- 


A MODERN TELEMAClias. 


n 

ness of his own limitation. He was glad to linger with 
Lanty, who was looking in wonder at the grim buildings. 

“ And did the holy father live here?” said he. ‘‘ Faith, 
and ’twas a quare taste he must have had , I wonder now 
if there would be vartue in a bit of a stone from his palace. 
It would mightily please my old mother if there were.” 

“ I thought it was the wrong popes that lived here,” sug- 
gested Arthur. 

Lanty looked at him a moment, as if in doubt whether 
to accept a heretic suggestion, but the education received 
through the abbe came to mind, and he exclaimed ; 

” Maybe you are in the right of it, sir; and I’d best let 
the stones alone till I can tell which is the true and which 
is the false. By the same token, little is the difference it 
would make to her, unless she knew it ; and if she did, 
she’d as soon I brought her a hair of the old dragon’s bris 
ties.” 

Lanty found another day or two’s journey bring him 
very fiearly in contact with the old dragon, for at Taras- 
con was the cave in which St. Martha was said to have 
demolished the great dragon of Provence with the sign of 
the cross. Madame de Bourke and her children made a 
devout pilgrimage thereto; but when Arthur found that it 
was the actual Martha of Bethany to whom the legend 
was appended, he grew indignant, and would not accom 
pany the party. ” It was a very different thing from the 
martyrs of Lyons and Vienne I Their history was credible, 
but this ” 

“Speak not so loud, my friend,” said Monsieur de 
Varennes. “Their shrines are equally good to console 
rromen and children.” 

Arthur did not quite understand the tone, nor know 
whether to be gratified at being treated as a man, or to be 
shocked at the marquis’ defection from his own faith. 

The marquis, Avho was able to accompany his sister as 
far as Montpelier, was amused at her two followers, Scotch 
and Irish, both fine young men— almost too fine, he averred. 

“You will have to keep a careful watch on them when 
you enter Germany, sister,” he said, “or the King of 
Prussia will certainly kidnap them for his tall regiment of 
grenadiers. ’ ’ 

“Oh, brother, do not speak of any more dangers; I see 
quite enough before me ere I can even rejoin my dear hus 
band.” 

A very serious council was held between the brother and 
sister. The French army, under Marshal Berwick, had 
marched across on the south side on the Pyrenees, and was 
probably by this time in the county of Rousillon, intend- 
ing to besiege Rosas. Once w ith them all would be well, 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


but between lay the mountain roads, and the very quarter 
of Spain that had been most unwilling to accept French 
rule. 

The marquis had been authorized to place an escort at 
his sister’s service, but though the numbers might guard 
her against mere mountain banditti, they would not be suf- 
ficient to protect her from hostile troops, such as might 
only too possibly be on the way to encounter Berwick. The 
expense and difficulty of the journey on the mountain 
roads would likewise be great, and it seemed advisable to 
avoid these dangers by going by sea. Madame de Bourke 
eagerly acceded to this plan, her terror of the wild Pyre- 
nean passes and wilder inhabitants had always been such 
that she was glad to catch at any means of avoiding them, 
and she had made more than one voyage before. 

Estelle was gratified to find they were to go by sea, since 
Telemacbus did so in a Phoenician ship, and, in that odd, 
dreamy way in Avhich children blend fiction and reality, 
wondered if they should come on Calypso’s island;* and 
Arthiu% who had read the “ Odyssey,” delighted her and 
terrified Ulysse with the cave of Polyphemus. Monsieur 
de Varennes could only go with his sister as far as Mont- 
pelier. Then he took leave of her, and the party proceeded 
along the shores of the lagoons in the carriage to the sea- 
port of Cette, one of the old Greek towns of the Gulf of 
Lyons, and with a fine harbor full of ships. Maitre He- 
bert was sent to take a passage on board of one, while his 
lady and her party repaired to an inn, and waited all the 
afternoon before he returned with tidings that he could 
find no French vessel about to sail for Spain, but that 
there was a Genoese tartan, bound for Barcelona, on which 
Madame la Comtesse could secure a passage for herself 
and her suit, and which would take her thither in twenty- 
four hours. 

The tOMui was full of troops, waiting a summoms to join 
Marshal Berwick’s army. Several resplendent officers had 
already paid their respects to Madame I’Embassadrice, and 
they concurred in the advice, unless she would prefer 
waiting for the arrival of one of the French transports 
which were to take men and provisions to the armv in 
Spain. 

This, however, she declined, and only accepted the serv 
ices of the gentlemen so far as to have her passports re- 
newed, as was needful, since they were to be conveyed by 
the vessel of an independent power, though always an 
ally of I'rance. 

The tartan was a beautiful object, a one-decked, single - 
masted vessel, with a long bowsmit, and a huge lateen sail 
like a wing, and the children fell in love with her at first 


A MODERN TELEMACHVR. 


83 


sight. Estelle was quite sure that she was just such a ship 
as Mentor borrowed for Telemachus ; but the poor maids 
were horribly frightened, and Babette might be heard de 
daring she had never engaged herself to be at the mercy 
of the waves, like a bit of lemon-peel in a glass of emi 
sucree. 

“ You may return,” said Madame de Bourke. ” I com- 
pel no one to share our dangers and hardships.” 

But Babette threw herself on her knees, and declared 
that nothing should ever separate her from madame ! She 
was a good creature, but she could not deny herself the 
luxury of the sobs and tears that showed to all beholders 
the extent of her sacrifice. 

Madame de Bourke knew that there would be consider- 
able discomfort in a vessel so little adapted for passengers, 
and with only one small cabin, which the captain, who 
spoke French, resigned to her use. It would only, how- 
ever, be for a short time, and though it was near the end 
of October, the blue expanse of sea was calm as only the 
Mediterranean can be, so that she trusted that no harm 
would result to those who would have to spend the night 
on deck. 

It was a beautiful evening when the little Genoese vessel 
left the harbor and Cette receded in the distance, looking 
fairer the further it was left behind. The children were 
put to bed as soon as they could be persuaded to cease 
from watching the lights in the harbor and the phos- 
phorescent wake of the vessel in the water. 

That night and the next day were pleasant and peaceful ; 
there was no rough weather, and little sickness among the 
travelers. Madame de Bourke congratulated herself on 
having escaped the horrors of the Pyrenean journey, and 
the Genoese captain assured her that unless the weather 
should change rapidly they would wake in sight of the 
Spanish coast the next morning. If the sea were not al- 
most too calm, they would be there already. The evening 
was again so delightful that the children were glad to hear 
that they would have again to return by sea, and Arthur, 
who somewhat shrank fi*om his presentation to the count, 
regretted that the end of the voyage was so near, though 
Ulysse assured him that '' Mon papa would love him, be- 
cause he could tell such charming stories,” and Lanty tes- 
tified that ” Monsieur le Comte was a mighty friendly 
gentleman.” 

Arthur was lying asleep on deck, wrapped in his cloak, 
when he was awakened by a commotion among the sail- 
ors. He started up and found that it was early morning, 
the sun rising above the sea, and the sailors all gazing 
eagerly in that direction. He engerly made his way to ask 


34 


A MODBUN TELEMACHVS. 


if they were in sight of land, recollecting, however, as he 
made the first step, that Spain lay to the west of them— 
not to the east. 

He distinguished the cry from the Genoese, sailors, “ II 
Moro—Il il/oro,” in tones of horror and consternation, and 
almost at the same moment received a shock from Maitre 
Hebert, who came stumbling against him. 

“Pardon, pardon, monsieur; I go to prepare madame! 
It’s the accursed Moors. Let me -psiss—misericorde, what 
Av ill become of us?’’ 

Arthur struggled on in search of such of the crew as 
could speak French, but all were in too much consterna- 
tion to attend to him, and he could only watch that to 
Avhich tlieir eyes were directed, a white sail, bright in the 
morning light, coming up with a rapidity strange and fear- 
ful in its precision, like a hawk pouncing on its prey, for 
it did not depend on its sails alone, but Avas propelled by 
oars. 

The next moment Madame de Bourke Avas on deck, hold 
ing by the abbe’s arm, and Estelle, lier hair on her shoul 
ders, clinging to her. She looked A^ery pale, but her calm 
ness Avas in contrast to the Italian sailors, Av^ho Avere 
throwing themselves with gestures of despair, screaming 
out voAvs to the Madonna and saints, and shouting impre 
cations. The skipper came to speak to her. “Madame,” 
he said, “1 implore you to remain in your cabin. After 
the first, you and all yours will be safe. They cannot 
harm a French subject ; alas! alas! would it Avere so Avith 
us!” 

“Hoav then Avill it be with you,” she asked. 

He made a gesture of deprecation. 

“Forme it Avill be ruin; for my poor fellows slavery; 
that is, if we survive the onset. Madame, I entreat of you, 
take shelter in the cabin, yourself and all yours. None can 
answer for Avhat the first rush of these fiends may be! 
Diavalo ! veri diavalo ! Ah ! for which of my sins is it that 
after fifty voyages I should be condemned to lose my all?” 

A fresh outburst of screams from the creAv summoned 
the captain. “ They are putting out the long boat,” Avas 
the cry; “ they Avill board us!” 

‘ ‘ Madame ! I entreat of you, shut yourself into the cabin. ’ ' 

And the four maids, in various stages of deshabille, add- 
ing their cries to those of the sailors, tried to drag her in, 
but she looked about for Arthur. “Come Avith us, mon- 
sieur,” she said, quietly, for after all her previous de- 
pressions and alarms, her spirit rose to endurance in the 
actual stress of danger. ‘ ‘ Come Avith us, I entfeat of you, ’ ’ 
she said. “You are named in our passports, and the treat- 
ies are such that neither French nor English subjects can 


A MODEEN TELEMACIIUS. 


35 


be maltreated nor enslaved by these wretches. As the cap 
tain says, the danger is only in the first attack.” 

“I will protect you, madame, with my life,” declared 
Arthur, drawing his sword, as his cheeks and eyes lighted. 

Ah, put that away. What could you do but lose your 
own?” cried the lady. “Remember that you have a 
mother ” 

The Genoese captain here turned to insist that madame 
and all the women should shut themselves instantly into 
the cabin. Estelle dragged hard at Arthur's hand, with 
entreaties that he would come, but he lifted her down the 
ladder, and then closed the door on her, Lanty and he 
being both left outside. 

“ To be shut into a hole like a rat in a trap when there’s 
blows to the fore is more than flesh could stand,” said 
Lanty, who had seized on a handspike and was waving it 
about his head, true shillalah fashion, by hereditary in- 
stinct in one who had never beheld a faction fight, in what 
ought to have been his native land. 

The Genoese captain looked at him as a madman, and 
shouted in a confused mixture of French and Italian to lay 
down his weapon. 

“ Quel cattivi—ces scelerats were armed to the teeth— 
would fire. All lie flat on the deck !” 

The gesture spoke for itself. With a fearful howl all the 
Italians dropped flat ; but neither Scotch nor Irish blood 
brooked to follow their example, or perhaps fully perceived 
the urgency of the need, till a volley of bullets were whis- 
tling about their ears, though happily without injury , the 
mast and rigging having protected them, for the sail was 
riddled with holes, and the smoke dimmed their vision as 
the report sounded in their ears. In another second the 
turbaned, cimetered figures were leaping on board. 

The Genoese still lay flat, offering no resistance, but 
Lanty and Arthur stood on either side of the ladder, and 
hurled back the two who first approached; but four or five 
more rushed upon them, and they would have been in- 
stantly cut down, had it not been for a shout fi om the Geno- 
ese, ‘ ‘ Franchi! FranchiP ’ At that magic word, which was 
evidently understood, the pirates only held the two 
youths tightly, vituperating them no doubt in bad Arabic, 
Lanty grinding his teeth with rage, though scarcely feel 
ing the pain of the two saber cuts he had received, and 
pouring forth a volley of exclamations, chiefly, however, 
directed against the white-livered spalpeens of sailors, who 
had not lifted so much as a hand to help him. Fortunately 
no one understood a word he said but Arthur, who had 
military experience enough to know there was nothing for 


36 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS, 


it but to stand still in the grasp of his captor, a wiry-look' 
ing Moor, with a fez, and a striped sash round his waist. 

The leader, a sturdy Turk in a dirty white turban, with 
a huge saber in his hand, was listening to the eager words, 
poured out with many gesticulations by the Genoese 
captain, in a language utterly incomprehensible to the 
Scot, but which was the lingim Franca of the Mediterra 
nean ports. 

It resulted in four men being placed on guard at the 
hatchway leading to the cabin, while all the rest, includ 
ing Arthur, Hebert, Laurence, were driven toward the 
prow, and made to understand by signs that they must 
not move on ])eril of their lives. A Turk was placed at the 
helm, and the tartan’s head turned toward the pirate 
captor; and all the others, who were not employed other 
wise, began to ransack the vessel and feast on the provisions. 
Some hams were thrown overboard, with shouts of evident 
scorn as belonging to the unclean beast, but the wine was 
eagerly drunk, and Maitre Hebert uttered a wail of dismay 
as he saw five Moors gorging large pieces of his finest 
pate. 


CHAPTER IV. 

WRECKED. 

“ They had na sailed upon the sea 
A day but barely three. 

When the lift grew dark and the wind blew cauld. 

And gurly grew the sea. 

“ Oh, where will I find a little wee boy 
Will tak my helm in hand. 

Till I gae up to my topmast 
And see for some dry land?” 

Sir PatHck Spens. 

It was bad enough on the deck of the unfortunate 
Genoese tartan, but rar worse below, where eight persons 
were shut into the stifling atmosphere of the cabin, de- 
prived of the knowledge of what was going on above, ex- 
cept from the terrific sounds they heard. Estelle, on being 
shut into the cabin, announced that the Phoenician ship 
was taken by the vessels of Sesostris, but this did not 
afford any one else the same satisfaction as she appeared 
to derive from it. Babette and Rosette were echoing 
every scream of the crew, and quite certain that all would 
be massacred, and little Ulysse, wakened by the hubbub, 
rolled round in his berth and began to cry. 

Madame de Bourke, very white, but quite calm, insisted 
on silence, and then said: “ I do not think the danger is 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS, 


37 


very great to ourselves if you will keep silence and not at- 
tract attention. But our hope is in Heaven. My brother, 
will you lead our prayers? Eecite our office.” Obediently 
the abbe fell on his knees, and his example was followed by 
the others. His voice went monotonously on throughout 
with the Latin. The lady, no doubt, followed in her heart, 
and she made the responses as did the others, fitfully ; but 
her hands and eyes were busy, looking to the priming of 
two small pistols, which she took out of her jewel-case, 
and the sight of which provoked fresh shrieks from the 
maids. Mademoiselle Julienne meantime was dressing 
Ulysse, and standing guard over him, Estelle watching afi 
with eager, bright eyes, scarcely frightened, but burning 
to ask questions, from which her uncle’s prayers debarred 
her. 

At the volley of shot. Rosette was reduced to quiet by a 
swoon, but Victorine, screaming that the wretches had 
killed Laurent, would have rushed on deck had not her mis- 
tress forcibly withheld her. There ensued a prodigious yel- 
ling and howling, trampling and scuffling, then the sounds of 
strange languages in vituperation or command, steps coming 
down the ladder, sounds of altercation, retreat, splashes in 
the sea, the feeling that the ship was put about— and ever 
the trampling, the wild cries of exultation, which over and 
over again made the prisoners feel choked with the horror 
of some frightful crisis close at hand. And all the time 
they were in ignorance their little window in the stern 
showed them nothing but sea; and even if Madame de 
Bourke’s determination had not hindered Victorine from 
peeping out of the cabin, whether prison or fortress, the 
Moorish sentries outside kept the door closed. 

How long this continued was scarcely to be guessed. It 
was hours by their own feelings ; Ulysse began to cry from 
hunger, and his mother gave him and Estelle some cakes 
that were within reach. Mademoiselle Julienne begged 
her lady to share the repast, reminding her that she would 
need all her strength. The abbe, too, was hungry enough, 
and some wine and preserved fruits coming to light, all 
the prisoners made a meal which heartened most of them 
considerably ; although the heat was becoming terrible, as 
the sun rose higher in the sky, and very little Uir could be 
obtained through the window, so that poor Julienne could 
not eat, and Rosette fell into a heavy sleep in the midst of 
her sighs. Even Estelle, who had got out her Telemaque, 
like a sort of oracle in the course of being verified, was 
asleep over it, when fresh noises and grating sounds were 
heard, new steps on deck, and there were steps and voices. 
The Genoese captain was heard exclaiming: “Open, ma- 


38 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


dame ! you can do so safely. This is the Algerine captain, 
who is bound to protect you.” 

The maids huddled together behind their lady, who 
stood forward as the door opened to admit a stout, squarely- 
built man in the typical dress of a Turk— white turban, 
purple coat, broad sash crammed with weapons, and ample 
trousers— a truculent figure which made the maids shudder 
and embrace one another with suppressed shrieks, but 
which somehow, even in the midst oi his Eastern salaam, 
gave the countess a sense that he was acting a comedy, 
and carried her involuntarily back to the Moors whom she 
had seen in the ‘ ‘ Cid ’ ’ on the" stage. And looking again, she 
perceived that though brown and weather-beaten, there 
was a certain Northern rudidness inherent in his complex- 
ion ; that his eyes were gray, so far as they were visible be- 
tween the surrounding puckers; and his eyebrows, mus- 
tache, and beard not nearly so dark as the hair of the 
Genoese who stood cringing beside him as interpreter. 
She formed her own conclusions and adhered to them, 
though he spoke in bad Arabic to the skipper, who pro- 
ceeded to explain that El Reis Hamed would offer no in- 
jury to Madame la Comtesse, her suit or property, being 
bound by treaty between the dey and the King of France, 
but that he required to see her passport. There was a lit- 
tle blundering in the Italian’s French rendering, and 
Madame de Bourke was quick to detect the perception of 
it in the countenance of tne reis, stolid though it was. She 
felt no doubt that he was a renegade of European birth, 
and watched with much anxiety as well as curiosity, his 
manner of dealing with her passports, which she would not 
let out of her own hands. She saw in a moment that 
though he let the Genoese begin to interpret them, his eyes 
were following intelligently ; and she hazarded the obser- 
vation, “ You understand, sir. You are Frank?” 

He turned one startled glance toward the door to see if 
there were any listeners, and answered, “Hollander, ma- 
dame.” 

The countess had traveled with diplomatists all her life, 
and knew a little of the vernacular of most languages, and 
it was in Dutch— broken indeed, but still Dutch— that she 
declared that she was sure that she might rely on his pro- 
tection— a security which in truth she was far fi’om feel- 
ing; for while some of these unfortunate men, renegades 
only from weakness, yearned after their compatriots and 
their lost home and faith, others out-Heroded the Moors 
themselves in ferocity, especially toward the Christian 
captives; nor was a Dutchman likely to have any special 
tenderness in his composition, above all toward the French. 
However, there was a certain smile on the lips of !l^is 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


89 


Hamed, and he answered with a very hearty, “ Ja! ja! 
madame. Upon my soul I will let no harm come to you or 
the pretty little ones, nor the young vrouwkins either, if 
they will keep close. You are safe by treaty. A reis 
woufd have to pay a heavy reckoning with Mehemed Dey 
if a French embassador had to complain of him, and you 
will bear me witness, madame, that I have not touched a 
hair of any of your heads!” 

.“I am sure you wish me well, sir,” said Madame de 
Bourke, in a dignified way, “but I require to be certified 
of the safety of the rest of my suit, my steward, my 
lackey, and my husband’s secretary, a young gentleman 
of noble birth.” 

” They are safe, madame. This Italian slave can bear 
me witness that no creature has been harmed since 
my crew boarded this vessel.” 

“I desire then that they may be released, as being 
named in my passport.” 

To this the Dutchman consented. 

Whereupon the skipper began to wring his hands, and 
piteously to beseech madame to intercede for him, but the 
Dutchman cut him short before she could speak. “ Dog of 
an Italian, the lady knows better! You and your fellows 
are our prize— poor enough after all the trouble you have 
given us in chasing you. 

Madame de Bourke spoke kindly to the poor man, telling 
him that though she could do nothing for him now, it was 
possible that she might when she should have rejoined her 
husband, and she then requested the reis to land her and 
her suit in his long-boat on the Spanish coast, which could 
be seen in the distance, promising him ample reward if he 
would do so. 

To this he replied, “Madame, you ask what would 
be death to me.” 

He went on to explain that if he landed her on Christian 
ground, without first presenting her and her passport to 
the dey and the French consul, his men might represent 
him as acting in the interests of the Christians, and as a 
traitor to the Algerine power, by taking a bribe from a 
person belonging to a hostile state, in which case the bow- 
string would be the utmost mercy he could expect; and 
the reigning dey, Mehemed, having been only recently 
chosen, it was impossible to guess how he might deal with 
such cases. Once at Algiers, he assured Madame de Bourke 
that she would have nothing to fear, as she would be under 
the protection of the French consul ; and she had no choice 
but to submit, though much concerned for the continued 
anxiety to her husband, as well as the long delay and un- 
certainty of finding him. 


40 


A 3IODERN TELEiMACHUS. 


Still, when she perceived that it was inevitable, she com- 
plained no more, and the Dutchman went on with a certain 
bluff kindness— as one touched by her courtesy — to offer 
her the choice of remaining in the tartan or coming on 
board his larger vessel. The latter he did not recom.mend, 
as he had a crew of full two hundred Turks and Moors, and 
it would be necessary to keep herself and all her women 
as closely as possible secluded in the cabins; and even 
then, he added, that if once seen he could hardly answer 
for some of these corsairs not endeavoring to secure a fair 
young Frank girl for his harem ; and as his eye fell on 
Rosette, she bridled and hid herself behind Mademoiselle 
Julienne. 

He must, he said, remove all the Genoese, but he would 
send on board the tartan only seven men, on whom he 
could perfectly depend for respectful behavior, so that the 
captives would be able to take the air on deck as freely as 
before. There was no doubt that he was in earnest, and 
the lady accepted his offer with thanks, all the stronger 
since she and all around her were panting and sick for 
want of fresh air. 

It was a great relief when he took her on deck with him 
that she might identify the three men whom she claimed 
as belonging to her suit. Arthur, Lanty, and Hebert, 
who, in their vague knowledge of the circumstances, had 
been dreading the oar for the rest of their lives, could 
hardly believe their good-fortune when she called them up 
to her, and the abbe gripped Lanty ’s arm as if he would 
never let him go again. The poor Italians seemed to feel 
their fate all the harder for the deliverance of these three, 
and sobbed, howled, and wept so piteously that Arthur 
wondered how strong men could so give way, while Lanty’s 
tears sprung forth in sympathy, and he uttered assurances 
and made signs that he would never cease to pray for their 
rascue. 

“ Though,” as he observed, ‘‘they were xx)or creatures 
that hadn’t the heart of a midge, when there was such a 
chance of a fight while the haythen spalpeens were coming 
on board.” 

Here Lanty was called on to assist Hebert in identifying 
his lady’s bales of goods, when all those of the unfortunate 
Genoese were put on board the corsair’s vessel. A sail- 
cloth partition was extended across the deck by the care 
of the Dutchman, “who ” — as Lanty said — “ for a haythen 
apostate was a very da cent man.” He evidently had a 
strong compassion and fellow-feeling for the Christian 
lady, and assured her that she might safely take the air 
and sit on deck as much as she pleased behind its shelter ; 
and he likewise carefully selected the seven of his crew 


A TI^L£3fACinrS. 


41 


Avhom he sent on board to work the ship, the chief being a 
heavy -looking old Turk, with a chocolate-colored visage 
between a huge white beard and eyebrows, and the others 
mere lads, except one, who, from an indefinable European 
air about him, was evidently a renegade, and could speak 
a sort of French, so as to hold communication with the 
captives, especially Lanty, who was much quicker than 
any of the rest in picking up languages, perhaps from 
having from his infancy talked French and English (or 
rather Irish), and likewise learned Latin with his foster- 
brother. This man was the only one permitted to go 
astern of the partition, in case of need, to attend to the 
helm; but the vessel was taken in tow by the corsair, and 
needed little management. The old Turk seemed to regard 
the Frankish women like so many basilisks, and avoided 
turning a glance in their direction, roaring at his crew if he 
only saw them approaching the sail-cloth, and keeping a 
close watch upon the lithe, black-eyed youths, whose 
brown limbs carried them up the mast with the agility of 
monkeys. 

There was one in especial— a slight, well-made fellow, 
about twenty, with a white turban cleaner than the rest— 
who contrived to cast wonderful glances from the mast- 
head over the barrier at Rosette, who actually smiled in 
return at ce pauvre garcon, and smiled the more for Made- 
moiselle Julienne’s indignation. Suddenly, however, a 
shrill shout made him descend hastily, and the old Turk’s 
voice might be heard in its highest key, no doubt shrieking 
out maledictions on all the ancestry of the son of a dog 
who durst defile his eyes with gazing at the shameless 
daughters of the Frank. Little Ulysse was, however, 
allowed to disport himself wherever he pleased ; and after 
once, under Arthur’s protection, going forward, he found 
himself made very welcome, and offered various curiosities, 
such as shells, corals, and a curious dried little hippocam- 
pus, or sea-horse. 

This he brought back in triumph, to the extreme delight 
of his sister’s classical mind. “Oh, mamma, mamma!” 
she cried, “ Ulysse really has got the skeleton of a Triton. 
It is exactly like the stone creatures in the Champs 
Elysees. ’ ’ 

There was no denying the resemblance, and it so in- 
creased the confusion in Estelle’s mind between the actual 
and the mythological, that Arthur told her that she was 
looking out for the car of Amphitrite to arise from the 
waters. Anxiety and trouble had made him much better 
acquainted with Madame de Bourke, who was grateful to 
him for his kindness to her children, and not without con- 
cern as to whether she should be able to procure his re- 


43 


A MODERN TELEMxiCHUS, 


lease as well as her own at Algiers. For Laurence Cal- 
laghan she had no fears, since he was born at Paris, and 
a naturalized French subject like her husband and his 
brother ; but Arthur was undoubtedly a Briton, and unless 
she could pass him off as one of her suit, it would depend 
on the temper of the English consul whether he should be 
viewed as a subject or as a rebel, or simply left to captiv- 
ity until his Scottish relations should have the choice of 
ransoming him. 

She took a good deal of pains to explain the circum- 
stances to him as well as to all who could understand 
them; for though she hoped to keiip all together, and to 
be able to act for them herself, no one could guess how 
they might be separated, and she could not shake off that 
foreboding of misfortune which had haunted her from the 
first. 

The kingdom of Algiers was, she told them, tributary to 
the Turkish sultan, who kept a guard of janizaries there, 
from among whom they themselves elected the dey. He 
was supposed to govern by the consent of a divan, but 
was practically as despotic as any Eastern sovereign ; and 
the aga of the janizaries was next in authority to him. 
Piracy on the Mediterranean was, as all knew, the chief 
occupation of the Turks and Moors of any spirit or enter- 
prise, a Turk being in authority in each vessel to make 
sure that the sultan had his share, and that the capture 
was so conducted as not to involve Turkey in dangerous 
wars with European powers. Capture by the Moors had 
for several centuries been one of the ordinary contingencies 
of a voyage, and the misfortune that had happened to the 
party was not at all an unusual one. 

In 1687, however, the nuisance had grown to such a 
height that Admiral Du Quesne bombarded the town of Al- 
giers and destroyed all the fortifications, peace being only 
granted on condition that a French consul should reside at 
Algiers, and that French ships and subjects should be ex- 
empt from this violence of the corsairs. 

The like treaties existed with the English, but had been 
very little heeded by the Algerines till recently, when the 
possession of Gibraltar and Minorca had provided harbors 
for British ships, which exercised a salutary supervision 
over these Southern sea-kings. The last dey. Baba Hali, 
had been a wise and prudent man, anxious to repress out- 
rage, and to be on good terms with the two great European 
powers ; but he had died in the spring of the current year, 
1718, and the temper of his successor, Mehemed, had not 
yet been proved. 

Madame de Bourke had some trust in the Dutch reis, 
renegade though he was. She had given him her beauti- 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


43 


fill watch set with brilliants, and he had taken it with 
a certain gruff reluctance, declaring that he did not 
want it ; he was ready enough to serve her without such a 
toy. 

Nevertheless the lady thought it well to impress on each 
and all, in case of any separation or further disaster, that 
their appeal must be to the French consul, explaining mi 
nutely the forms in which it should be made. 

“I cannot tell you,” she said to Arthur, “how great a 
comfort it is to me to have with me a gentleman, one of 
intelligence and education, to whom I can confide my poor 
children. I know you will do your utmost to protect them 
and restore them to their father.” 

“With my very heart’s blood, madame.” 

“ I hope that may not be asked of you, monsieur,” she 
returned, with a faint smile, “ though I fear there may be 
much of perplexity and difficulty in the way before again 
rejoining him. You see where I have placed our passports? 
My daughter knows it likewise ; but in case of their being 
taken from you, or any other accident happening to you, 
I have written these two letters, which you had better bear 
about your person. One is, as you see, to our consul at 
Algiers, and may serve as credentials ; the other is to my 
husband, to whom I have already written respecting you.” 

“A thousand thanks, madame,” returned Arthur. 
“ But I hope and trust we may all reach Monsieur le Comte 
in safety together. You you;;self said that you expected 
only a brief detention before ne could be communicated 
with, and this captain, renegade though ho be, evidently 
has a respect for you.” 

“ That is quite true,” she returned, “and it may only be 
my foolish heart that forebodes evil ; nevertheless, I can- 
not but recollect that c'est Vimprevu qid arrived 

• ‘ Then, madame, that is the very reason there should be 
no misfortune,” returned Arthur. 

It was on the second day after the capture of the tartan 
that the sun set in a purple, angry -looking bank of cloud, 
and the sea began to heave in a manner which renewed 
the earlier distresses of the voyage to such as were bad 
sailors. The sails both of the corsair and of the tartan 
were taken in, and it was plain that a rough night was to 
be expected. The children were lashed into their berths, 
and all prepared themselves to endure. The last time Ar- 
thur saw Madame de Bourke’s face, by the light of the 
lamp swinging furiously from the cabin roof, as he assisted 
in putting in the dead lights, it bore the same fixed expres- 
sion of fortitude and resignation as when she was prepar- 
ing for the boarding by the pirates. 

He remained on deck, but it was very perilous, for the 


44 


A MODUm TFLmiAOirUS, 


vessel was so low in the water that the waves dashed over 
it so wildly that he could hardly help being swept away. 
It was pitch dark, too, and the lantern of the other vessel 
could only just be seen, now high above their heads, now 
sinking in the trough of the s(^a, while the little tartan was 
lifted up as though on a mountain; and in a kind of giddy 
dream, lie thought of falling headlong upon her deck. 
Finally he found himself falling. Was he washed over- 
board? No; a sharp blow showed him that he had only 
fallen down the hatchway, and after lying still a moment, 
he heard the voices of Lanty and Hebert, and presently 
they were all tossed together by another lurch of the 
ship. 

It . was a night of miseries that seemed endless, and when 
a certain amount of light appeared, and Arthur and Lanty 
crawled upon deck, the tempest was unabated. They 
found themselves still dashed, as if their vessel were a mere 
cork, on the huge waves; rushes of water coming over 
them, whether from sea or sky there was no knowing, for 
all seemed blended together in one mass of dark, lurid 
gray; and where was the Algerine ship — so lately their 
great enemy, now watched for as their guide and guard- 
ian? 

It was no place nor time for questions, even could they 
have been heard or understood. It was scarcely possible 
even to be heard by one another ; and it was some time be- 
fore they convinced themselves that the large vessel had 
disappeared. The cable must have parted m the night, 
and they were running with bare poles before the gale ; the 
seamanship of the man at the helm being confined to avoid- 
ing the more direct blows of the waves, on the huge crests 
of which the little tartan rode — gallantly perhaps in mar- 
iner’s eyes, but very wretchedly to the feelings of the un- 
liappy landsmen within her. 

Arthur thought of St. Paul, and remembered with dis- 
may that it was many days before sun or moon appeared. 
He managed to communicate his recollection to Lanty, who 
exclaimed, “And he was a holy man, and he was a pris- 
oner, too. He will feel for us if any man can in this sore 
strait ! Sancte Pauls, ora pro nobis. An’ haven’t I got the 
blessed scapulary about my neck that will bring me through 
worse than this?” 

The three managed to get down to tell the unfortunate 
inmates of the cabin what was the state of things, and to 
carry them some food, though at the expense of many 
falls and severe blows ; and almost all of them were too 
faint or nauseated to be able to swallow such food as could 
survive the transport under such circumstances. Yet 
high-spirited little Estelle entreated to be carried on deck. 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


45 


to see what a storm was like. She had read of them so 
often, and wanted to see as well as to feel. She was al- 
inost ready to cry when Arthur assured her it was quite 
impossible, and her mother added a grave order not to 
trouble him. 

Madame de Bourke looked so exhausted by the continual 
buffeting and closeness of the cabin, and her voice was so 
weak, that Arthur grieved over the impossibility of giving 
her any air. Julienne tried to make her swallow some eau 
de vie ; but the effort of steadjdng her hand seemed too 
much for her, and after a terrible lurch of the ship, which 
lodged the poor bonne in the opposite corner of the cabin, 
the lady shook her head and gave up the attempt. In- 
deed, she seemed so worn out that Arthur— little used to 
the sight of fainting— began to fear that her forebodings 
of dying before she could rejoin her husband were on the 
point of being realized. 

However, the gale abated toward evening, and the youth 
himself was so much worn out that his first respite was 
spent in sleep. When he awoke, the sea was much calmer, 
and the eastern sun was rising in glory over it ; the Turks, 
with their prayer -carpets in line, were simultaneously 
kneeling and bowing in prayer, with their faces turned to- 
ward it. Lanty uttered an onljr too emphatic curse upon 
the misbelievers, and Arthur vainly tried to make him be- 
lieve that their “Allah il Allah ” was neither addressed to 
Mohammed nor the sun. 

“Sure and if not, why did they make their obeisance to 
it all one as the Persians in th<} big histhory-book Master 
Phelim had at school?” 

“ It’s to the east they turn, Lanty, not to the sun.” 

“ And what right have the hay then spalpeens to turn to 
the east like good Christians?” 

“ ’Tis to their prophet’s tomb they look, at Mecca.” 

“There, an’ I tould you they were no better than hay- 
thens,” returned Lanty, “to be praying and knocking 
their heads on the bare boards— that have as much sense 
as they have— to a dead man’s tomb.” 

Arthur’s Scotch mind thought the Moors might have had 
the best of it in an argument when he recollected Lanty ’s 
trust in his scapular5^ 

They tried to hold a conversation with the reis, between 
lingua Franca SLud the provencal of the renegade; and 
they came to the conclusion that no one had the least idea 
where they were, or where they were going; the ship’s 
compass had been broken in the boarding, and there was 
no chart more available than the little map in the begin- 
ning of Estelle’s precious copy of Telemaque. The Turkish 
reis did not trouble himself about it, but squatted himself 


46 


A MODERN TELEMACBUS. 


down with his chibouque, abandoning all guidance of the 
ship, and letting her drift at the will of wind and wave, 
or, as he said, the will of Allah. When asked where he 
thought she was going, he replied, with solemn indiffer- 
ence, “Kismet;” and all the survivors of the crew — for 
one had been washed overboard — seemed to share his resig- 
nation. 

The only thing he did seem to care for was that if the in- 
fidel woman chose to persist in coming on deck, the canvas 
screen— which had been washed overboard — should be re- 
stored. This was done, and Madame de Bourke was as- 
sisted to a couch that had been prepared for her with 
cloaks, where the air revived her a little; but she listened 
with a faint smile to the assurances of Arthur, backed by 
Hebert, that this abandonment to fate gave the best chance. 
They might either be picked up by a Christian vessel or go 
ashore on a Christian coast ; but Madame de Bourke did 
not build much on these hopes. She knew too well what 
were the habits of wreckers of all nations to think that it 
would make much difference whether they were driven on 
the coast of Sicily or of Africa — “barring,” as Lanty said, 
“ that they should get Christian burial in the former case.” 

“ We are in the hands of a good God. That at least we 
know,” said the countess. “And he can bear us through, 
whether for life in paradise, or trial a little longer here 
below.” 

“ Like Blandina,” observed Estelle. 

“ Ah ! my child, who knows whether trials like even that 
blessed saint’s may not be in reserve even for your tender 
age. When I think of these miserable men, who have re- 
nounced their faith, I see what fearful ordeals there may 
be for those who fall into the hands of these unbelievers. 
Strong men ha'^ e yielded. How may it not be with my 
poor children?” 

“ God made Blandina brave, mamma. I will pray that 
he may make me so,” 

Land was in sight at last. Purple mountains rose to the 
south in wild forms, looking strangely thunderous and red 
in the light of the sinking sun. A bay, with rocks jutting 
out far into the sea, seemed to embrace them with its arms. 
Soundings were made, and presently the reis decided on 
anchoring. It was a rocky coast with cliffs descending 
into the sea, covered with verdure, and the water beneath 
was clear as glass. 

“ Have we escaped the Syrtes to fall upon ./Eneas’ cave?” 
murmured Arthur to himself. 

“And if we could meet Queen Dido, or maybe Venus 
herself, ’twould be no bad thing!” observed Lanty, who 
remembered his Virgil on occasion. “For there’s not a 


A MODEHN TBLFMACIIUS. 


47 


drop of wather left barring eau de vie, and if these Moors 
get at that, ’tis raving madmen they would be.” 

“ Do they know where we are?” asked Arthur. 

“Sorrah a bit!” returned Lanty, ” tho’ ’tis a pretty 
place enough. If my old mother was here, ’tis her heart 
would warm to the mountains.” 

“Is it Calypso’s Island?” whispered Ulysse to his 
sister. 

“ See, what are they doing?” cried Estelle. “There are 
people— don’t you see, white specks crowding down to the 
water.” 

There was just then a splash, and two bronzed figures 
were seen setting forth from the tartan to swim to shore. 
The Turkish reis had dispatched them, to ascertain 
whither the vessel had drifted and who the inhabitants 
might be. 

A good while elapsed before one of these scouts returned. 
There was a great deal of talk and gesticulating round 
him, and Lanty, mingling with it, brought back word that 
the place was the Bay of Golo, not far from Djigheli, and 
just beyond the Algerine frontier. The people were 
Cabeleyzes, a wild race of savage dogs, which means dogs 
according to the Moors, living in the mountains, and inde* 
pendent of the dey. A considerable number rushed to 
the coast, armed; and many, perceiving the tartan to be 
an Italian vessel, expected a raid by Sicilian robbers on 
their cattle ; but the Moors had informed them that it was 
no such thing, but a prize taken in the name of the Dey 
of Algiers, in which an illustrious French bey’s harem 
was being conveyed to Algiers. From that city the tartan 
was now about a day’s sail, having been driven to the 
eastward of it during the storm. “The Turkish com- 
mander evidently does not like the neighborhood,” said 
Arthur, “ judging by his gestures.” 

“ Dogs and sons of dogs are the best names he has for 
them,” rejoined Lanty. 

“See! They have cut the cable! Are we not to wait 
for the other man who swam ashore?” 

So it was. A favorable wind was blowing, and the reis, 
being by no means certain of the disposition of the Gabel 
eyzes, chose to leave them behind him as soon as possible 
and make his way to Algiers, which began to appear to his 
unfortunate passengers like a haven of safety. 

They were not, however, out of the bay when the wind 
suddenly veered, and before the lateen sail could be reefed 
it had almost caused the vessel to be blown over. There 
was a pitching and tossing almost as violent as in the 
storm, and then wind and current began carrying the 
tartan toward the rocky shore. The reis called the men to 


48 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


the oars, but their numbers were too few to be availing, and 
in a very few minutes more the vessel was driven hope- 
lessly toward a mass of rocks. 

Arthur, the abbe, Hebert, and Lanty were all standing 
together at the head of the vessel. The poor abbe seemed 
dazed, and kept dreamily fingering his rosary, and mur- 
muring to himself. The other three consulted in a low 
voice. 

“Were it not better to have the women here on deck?” 
asked Arthur. 

“ Eh, non P' sobbed Master Hebert. “ Let not my poor 
mistress see what is coming on her and her little ones !’ ’ 

“ Ah! and ’tis better, if the innocent creatures must be 
drowned, that it should be without being insensed of it till 
they wake in our Lady’s blessed arms,” added Lanty. 
“ Hark! and thej are at their prayers.” 

But just then A ictorine rushed up from below, and throw- 
her arms round Lanty, cried, “Oh! Laurent, Laurent! It 
is not true that it is all over with us, is it? Oh! save me! 
save me!” 

“ And if I cannot save you, mine own heart’s core, we’ll 
die together,” returned the poor fellow, holding her fast. 
“ It won’t last long, Victorine, and the saints have a hold 
of my scapulary.” 

He had scarcely spoken when, lifted upon a wave, the 
Tartan dashed upon the rocks, and there was at once a 
horrible shivering and crashing throughout her— a fright 
fui mingling of shrieks and yells of despair with the wild 
roar of the waves that poured over her. The party at the 
head of the vessel were conscious of clinging to something, 
and when the first hurly-burly ceased a little they found 
themselves all together against the bulwark, the vessel al- 
most on her beam ends, wedged into the rocks, their por- 
tion high and dry, but the stern, where the cabin was, en- 
tirely under water. 

Victorine screamed aloud, “ My lady! my poor lady!” 

“I see— I see something,” cried Arthur, who had al- 
ready thrown off his coat, and in another moment he had 
brought up Estelle in his arms, alive, sobbing and panting. 
Giving her over to the steward, he made another dive, 
but then was lost sight of, and returned no more, nor 
was anything to be seen of the rest. Shut up in the cabin. 
Madame de Bourke, Ulysse, and the three maids must 
have been instantly drowned, and none of the crew were 
to be seen. Maitre Hebert held the little girl in his arms, 
glad that, though living, she was only half conscious. 
Victorine, sobbing, hung heavily on Lanty, and before he 
could free his hands he perceived to his dismay that the 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


49 


abbe, unassisted, was climbing down from the wreck upon 
the rock,, scarcely perhaps aware of his danger. 

Lanty tried to put Victorine aside, and called out, 
“Your reverence, wait— Masther Phelim, wait till I come 
and help you.” But the girl, frantic with terror, grappled 
him fast, screaming to him not to let her go— and at the 
same moment a wave broke over the abbe. Lanty, almost 
wild, was ready to leap into it after him, thinking he must 
be sucked back with it, but behold! he still remained 
clinging to the rock. Instinct seemed to serve him, for he 
had stuck his knife into the rock and was holding on by it. 
There seemed no foothold, and while Lanty was deliber- 
ating how to go to his assistance, another wave washed 
him off and bore him to the next rock, which was only 
separated from the mainland by a channel of smoother 
water. He tried to catch at a floating plank, but in vain ; 
however, an oar next drifted toward him, and by it he 
gained the land, but only to be instantly surrounded by a 
mob of Cabeleyze^, who seemed to be stripping off his gar 
ments. 

By this time many were swimming toward the wreck ; 
and Estelle, who had recovered breath and senses, looked 
over Hebert’s shoulder at them. “The savages! the infi 
dels!” she said. “ Will they kill me? or will they try to 
make me renounce my faith? They shall kill me rather 
than make me yield.” 

“Ah! yes, my dear demoiselle, that is right. That is 
the only way. It is my resolution likewise,” returned He- 
bert. “ God give us grace to persist.” 

“My mamma said so,” repeated the child. “Is she 
drowned, Maitre Hebert?” 

“ She is happier than we are, my dear young lady.” 

“And my little brother, too! Ah! then I shall remem- 
ber that they are only sending me to them in paradise.” 

By this time the natives were near the wreck, and Es- 
telle, shuddering, clung closer to Hebert; but he had made 
up his mind what to do. “I must commit you to these 
men, mademoiselle,” he said; “the water is rising— we 
shall perish if we remain here.” 

“Ah! but it would not hurt so much to be drowned,” 
said Estelle, who had made up her mind to Blandina’s 
chair. 

“I must endeavor to save you for your father, made- 
moiselle, and your poor grandfather! There! be a good 
child! Do not" struggle.” 

He had attracted the attention of some of the swimmers, 
and he now flung her to them. One caught her by an arm, 
another by a leg. and she was safely taken to the shore, 
where at once a shoe and a stocking were taken from her, 


50 


2 MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


in token of her becoming a captive ; but otherwise her gar- 
ments were not meddled with ; in which she was happier 
than her uncle, whom she found crouched up on a rock, 
stripped almost to the skin, so that he shrunk from her, 
when she sprung to his side amid the Babel of wild men 
and women, who were shouting in exultation and wonder 
over his bi^ flapped hat, his soutane and bands, pointing at 
his white limbs and yellow hair— or, what amazed them 
even more, Estelle’s light, flaxen locks, which hung soaked 
around her. She felt a hand pulling them to see whether 
anything so strange actually grew on her head, and she 
turned round to confront them with a little gesture of de • 
fiant dignity that evidently awed them, for they kept their 
hands off her, and did not interfere as she stood sentry 
over her poor, shivering uncle. 

Lanty was by this time trying to drag Victorine over the 
rocks and through the water. * The poor Parisienne was 
very helpless, falling, hurting herself, a^d screaming con- 
tinually ; and trebly, when a couple of natives seized upon 
her and dragged her ashore, where they immediately 
snatched away her mantle and cap, pulled off her gold 
chain and cross, and tore out her earrings with howls of 
delight. 

Lanty,. struggling on, was likewise pounced upon, and 
bereft of his fine green-and gold livery coat and waistcoat, 
which, though by no means his best, and stained with the 
sea water, were grasped with ecstasy, quarreled over, and 
displayed in triumph. The steward had secured a rope, 
by which he likewise reached the shore, only to become 
the prey of the savages, who instantly made prize of his 
watch and purse, as well as of almost all his garments. 
The five unfortunate survivors would fain have remained 
huddled together, but the natives, pointing to some huts on 
the hillside, urged them thither by the language of shouts 
and blows. 

“Faith, and I’m not an ox,” exclaimed Lanty, as if the 
fellow could have understood him, “and is it to the sham- 
bles you’re driving me?” 

“Best not resist! There’s nothing for it but to obey 
them,” said the steward, “and at least there will be shelter 
for the child.” 

No objection was made to his lifting her in his arms, 
and he carried her, as the party, half-drowned, nearly 
starved and exhausted, stumbled on along the rocky paths 
which cut their feet cruelly, since their shoes had all been 
taken from them. Lanty gave what help he could to the 
abbe and Victorine, who were both in a miserable plight, 
but ere long he was obliged to take his turn in cariying 


A MODERN TELEMACHVSi. 51 

Estelle, whojie weight had become too much for the worn- 
out Hebert. 

He was alarmed to find, on transferring her, that her 
head sunk on his shoulder as if in a sleep of exhaustion, 
which, however, shielded her from much terror. For, at; 
they arrived at a cluster of five or six huts, built of clay 
and the branches of trees, out rushed a host of women, 
children, and large, fierce dogs, all making as much noise 
as they were capable of. The dogs fiew at the strange white 
forms, no doubt utterly new to them. Victorme was 
severely bitten, and Lanty, trying to rescue her, had his 
leg torn. 

These two were driven into one hut ; Estelle, who was 
evidently considered as the greatest prize, was taken into 
another and rather better one, together with the steward 
and the abbe. The Moors who had swum ashore had prob- 
ably told them that she was the Frankish bey’s daughter ; 
for this, miserable place though it was, appeared to be the 
best hut in the hamlet, nor was she deprived of her 
clothes. A sort of bournous or haik, of coarse texture, and 
very dirty, was given to each of the others, and some rye 
cakes baked in the ashes. Poor little Estelle turned away 
her head at first, but Hebert, alarmed at her shivering in 
her wet clothes, contrived to make her swallow a little, 
and then took off the soaked dress, and wrapped her in the 
bournous. She was by this time almost unconscious from 
weariness, and made no resistance to the unaccustomed 
hands, or the disgusting coarseness and uncleanness of her 
wrapper, but dropped asleep the moment he laid her down, 
and he applied himself to trying to dry her clothes at a 
little fire of sticks that had been lighted outside the open 
space, round which the huts stood. 

The abbe, too, had fallen asleep, as Hebert managed to 
assure poor Lanty, who rushed out of the other hut, nearly 
naked, and bloodstained in many places, but more con- 
cerned at his separation from his foster-brother than at 
anything else that had befallen him. Men, women, chil- 
dren, and dogs were all after him, supposing him to be 
trying to escape, and he was seized upon and dragged back 
by main force, but not before the steward had called out : 

“Monsieur I’Abbe sleeps — sleeps sound— he is not hurt! 
For Heaven’s sake, Laurent, be quiet ; do not enrage them ! 
It is the only hope for him, as lor mademoiselle and the 
rest of us. ’ ’ 

Lanty, on hearing of the abbe’s safety, allowed himself 
to be taken back, making himself, however, a passive dead 
weight on his captor’s hands. 

Arrah,” he muttered to himself, “ if ye will have me, 
ye shall have the throuble of me, bad luck to you. ’Tis 


52 


A 3I0Di:iiN TELE3IACHUS. 


little like ye are to the barbarous people St. Paul was 
thrown with ; but then, what right have I to expect the 
treatment of a holy man, the like of him? If so be I can 
save that poor orphan that’s left, and bring off Master 
Phelim safe, and save poor Victorine from being taken for 
some dirty spalpeen’s wife, when he has half a dozen more 
to the fore— ’tis little it matters what becomes of Lanty 
Callaghan; they might give him to their big brutes of 
dogs, and mighty lean meat they would find him!” 

So came down the first night upon the captives. 


CHAPTER V. 

CAPTIVITY. 

“ Hold fast thy hope and Heaven will not 
Forsake thee in thine hour. 

Good angels will be near thee. 

And evil ones will fear thee. 

And Faith will give thee power.” 

Southey. 

The whole northern coast of Africa is inhabited by a 
medley of tribes, all owning a kind of subjection to the sul- 
tan, but more in the sense of pope than of king. The part 
of the coast where the tartan had been driven on the rocks 
was beneath Mount Araz, a spur of the Atlas, and was in 
the possession of the Arab tribe called Cabeleyze, which is 
said to mean ” the revolted.” The revolt had been from 
the Algerine power, which had never been able to pursue 
them into the fastnesses of the mountains, and they re- 
mained a wild, independent race, following all those Ish- 
maelite traditions and customs that are innate in the blood 
blood of the Arab. 

When Estelle awoke from her long sleep of exhaustion 
she was conscious of a stifling atmosphere, and, moreover, 
of the crow of a cock in her immediate vicinity, then of a 
dog growling, and a lamb beginning to bleat. She raised 
herself a little, and beheld, lying on the ground around her, 
dark heaps with human feet protruding from them. These 
were interspersed with sheep, ^oats, dogs, and fowls, all 
seen by the yellow light of the rising sun, which made its 
way in, not only tlirough the doorless aperture, but 
through the reeds and branches which formed the walls. 

Close as the air was, she felt the chill of tho morning and 
shivered. At the same moment she perceived poor Maitre 
Hebert covering himself as best he could with a dirty 
brown garment, and bending over her with much solici 
tude, but making signs to make as little noise as possible, 
while he whispered, ” How goes it with mademoiselle?” 

“Ah,” said Estelle, recollecting herself, “we are ship- 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 53 

wrecked. We shall have to confess our faith! Where 
are the rest?” 

‘‘ There is Monsieur I’Abbe,” said Hebert, pointing to a 
white pair of the bare feet. ” Poor Laurent and Victorine 
have been carried elsewhere. ’ ’ 

” And mamma? And my brother?” 

”Ah! mademoiselle, give the good God thanks that he 
has spared them our trial.” 

“Mamma! Ah, she was in the cabin when the water 
came in? But my brother! I had hold of his liand, he 
came out with me. I saw Monsieur Arture swim away 
with him. Yes, Maitre Hebert, indeed I did.” 

Hebert had not the least hope that they could be saved, 
but he would not grieve the child by saying so, and his 
present object was to get her dressed before any one was 
awake to watch, and perhaps appropriate her upper gar- 
ments. He was a fatherly old man, and she let him help 
her with her fastenings, and comb out her hair with the 
tiny comb in her etui. Indeed, friseurs were the rule in 
France, and she was not unused to male attendants at the 
toilet, so that she was not shocked at being left to his care. 

For the rest, the child had always dwelt in an imaginary 
world, a curious compound of the Lives of the Saints and 
of Telemaque. Martyrs and heroes alike had been ship- 
wrecked, taken captive, and tormented ; and there was a 
certain sense of realized day-dreams about her, as if she 
had become one of the number and must act up to her 
part. She asked Hebert if there were a Saint Estelle, 
what was the day of the month, and if she should be 
placed in the calendar if she never complained, do what these 
barbarians might to her. She hoped she would hold out, 
for she would like to be able to help all whom she loved, 
poor papa and all. But it was hard that mamma, who 
was so good, could not be a martyr too ; but she was a 
saint in Paradise all the same, and thus Estelle made her 
little prayer in hope. There was no conceit or over* 
confidence in the tone, though, of course, the poor child 
little knew what she was ready to accept; but it was a 
spark of the martyr’s trust that gleamed in her eye, and 
gave her a sense of exaltation that took off the sharpest 
edge of grief and fear. 

By this time, however, the animals were stirring, and 
with them the human beings who had lain down in their 
clothes. Peace was over ; the abbe awoke, and began to 
call for Laurent and his clothes and his beads; but this 
aroused the master of the house, who started up, and, 
threatening with a huge stick, roared at him what ipust 
have been orders to be quiet, 


54 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS, 


Estelle indignantly flew between and cried, “ You shall 
not hurt my uncle.” 

The commanding gesture spoke for itself ; and, besides, 
poor Phelim cowered behind her with an air that caused a 
word and sign to pass round, which the captives found was 
equivalent to innocent or imbecile ; and the Mohammedan 
respect and tenderness for the demented spared him all 
further violence or molestation, except that he was lost 
and miserable without the attentions of his foster-brother ; 
and indeed the shocks he had undergone seemed to have 
robbed him of much of the small degree of sense he had 
once possessed. 

Coming into the space before* the doorway, Estelle found 
herself the object of universal gaze and astonishment, as 
her long, fair hair gleamed in the sunshine, every one com- 
ing to touch it, and even pull it to see if it were real. She 
was a good deal frightened, but too high-spirited to show 
it more than she could help, as the dark-skinned, bearded 
men crowded round with cries of wonder. The other two 
prisoners likewise appeared; Victorine looking wretchedly 
ill, and hardly able to hold up her head ; Lanty creeping 
toward the abbe, and trying to arrange liis remnant of 
clothing. There was a short respite, while the Arabs, all 
turning eastward, chanted their morning devotions with a 
solemnity that struck their captives. 

The scene was a fine one, if there had been any heart to 
admire. The huts were placed on the verge of a fine forest 
of chestnut and oak trees, and beyond towered up mount- 
ain-peaks in every variety of dazzling color— red and pur- 
ple beneath, glowing red and gold where the snowy peaks 
caught the morning sun, lately broken from behin»l them. 
The slopes around were covered with rich grass, flourish- 
ing after the summer heats, and to which the herds were 
now betaking themselves, excepting such as were detained 
to be milked by the women, who came pouring out of some 
of the other huts in dark-blue garments ; and in front, still 
shadowed by the mountain, lay the bay, deep, beautiful, 
pellucid green near the land, and shut in by fantastic and 
picturesque rocks— some bare, some cloathed with splendid 
foliage, winter though it w-as— while beyond lay the exqui- 
site blue stretching to the horizon. Little recked the poor 
prisoners of the scene so fair ; they only saw the remnant 
of the wreck below, the sea that parted them from hope, 
the savage rocks behind, the barbarous people around, the 
squalor and dirt of the adowara, as the hamlet was called. 

Comparatively, the Moor who had swum ashore to re- 
connoiter seemed like a friend when he came forward and 
saluted Estelle and the abbe respectfully. Moreover, the 
lingua Franca Lanty had picked up established a very ini- 


.4 MODERN TELEMACHUS, 


perfect double system of interpretation by the help of 
many gestures. This was Lanty’s explanation of the rest: 
in French, of course, but, like all his speech, Irish- English 
in construction. 

“This Moor, Hassan, wants to stand our friend in his 
own fashion, but he says they care not the value of an 
empty mussel shell for the French, and no more for the 
Dey of Algiers than I do for the Elector of Hanover. He 
has told them that Monsieur I’Abbe and mademoiselle are 
brother and daughter to a great bey— but it is little they 
care for that. Holy Virgin, they took mademoiselle for a 
boy ! That is why they are gazing at her so impudently. 
Would that I could give them a taste of my cane ! Do you 
see those broken walls, and a bit of a castle on yonder 
headland jutting out into the sea? They are bidding 
Hassan say .that the French built that, and garrisoned it 
with the help of the dey; but there fell out a war, and 
these fellows or their fathers, surprised it, sacked it, and 
carried off four Hundred prisoners into slavery. Holy 
Mother defend us ! Here are all the rogues coming to see 
what they will do with us!” 

For the open space in front of the huts, whence all the 
animals had now been driven, was becoming throngid with 
figures with the haik laid over their heads, spear or blun- 
derbuss in hand, fine-bearing, and sometimes truculent, 
though handsome, brown countenances. They gazed at 
the captives, and uttered what sounded like loud hurrahs 
or shouts; but after listening to Hassan, Lanty turned 
round trembling. “The miserables! Some are for sacri- 
ficing us outright on the spot, but this decent man declares 
that he will make them sensible that their prophet was 
not out-and-out as bad as that. Never you fear, mademoi- 
selle.” 

“ I am not afraid,” said Estelle, drawing up her head. 
“We shall be martyrs.” 

Lanty was engaged in listening to a moan from his fos- 
ter-brother for food, and Hebert joined in observing that 
they might as well be sacrificed as starved to death; where- 
upon the Irishman’s words and gesticulations induced the 
Moor to make representations which resulted in some dry 

E ieces of samh cake, a few dates, and a gourd of water 
eing brought by one of the women ; a scanty amount for 
the number, even though poor Victorine was too ill to touch 
anything but the water; while the abbe seemed unable to 
understand that the servants durst not demand anything 
better, and devoured her share and a quarter of Lanty’s as 
well as his own. Meantime the Cabeleyzes had all ranged 
themselves in rows, cross-legged, on the ground, opposite 
to the five unfortunate captives, to sit in judgment on them. 


56 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


As they kept together in one group, happily in the shade 
of a hut, Victorine, too faint and sick fully to know what 
was going on, lay with her head on the lap of her young 
mistress, who sat with her bright and strangely-fearless 
eyes confronting the wild figures opposite. 

Her uncle, frightened, though not comprehending the 
extent of his danger, crouched behind Lanty, who with 
Hebert stood somewhat in advance, the would-be guard- 
ians of the more helpless ones. 

There was an immense amount of deafening shrieking 
and gesticulating among the Arabs. Hassan was respond • 
ing, and finally turned to Lanty, when the anxious watch- 
ers could perceive signs as if of paying down coin made in- 
terrogatively. “Promise them anything, everything,” 
cried Hebert; “Monsieur le Comte would give his last sou 
— so would Madame la Marquise — to save mademoislle.” 

“ I have told him so,” said Laurence, presently ; “ I bade 
him let them know it is little they caq^ make of us, spe- 
cially now they have stripped us as bare as themselves, 
the rascals ! but that their fortunes would be made— and 
little they would know what to do with them— if they 
would only send Monsieur I’Abbe and mademoiselle to Al- 
giers safe and sound. There ! he is trying to incense them. 
Never fear. Master Phelim dear, there never was a rogue 
yet, black or white, or the color of poor madame’s frothed 
chocolate, who did not love gold better than blood, unless, 
indeed, ’twas for the sweet morsel of revenge; and these, 
for all their rolling eyes and screeching tongues, have not 
the ghost of a quarrel with us.” 

“ My beads, my breviary,” sighed the abbe. “ Get them 
for me, Lanty.” 

“I wish they would end it quickly,” said Estelle. “ My 
head aches so, and I want to be with mamma. Poor Vic- 
.torine! yours is worse,” she added, and soaked her hand- 
kerchief in the few drops of water left in the gourd to lay 
it on the maid’s forehead. 

The howling and shrieking betokened consultation, but 
was suddenly interrupted by some half-grown lads, who 
came running in with their hands full of what Lanty re 
cognized to his horror as garments worn by his mistress 
and fellow-servants, also a big kettle and a handspike. 
They pointed down to the sea, and with yells of haste and 
exultation all the wild conclave started up to snatch, 
handle, and examine, then began rushing headlong to the 
beach. Hassan’ s explanations were scarcely needed to 
show that they were about to ransack the ship, and he 
evidently took credit to himself for having induced them 
to spare the prisoners in case their assistance should be 
requisite to gain full possession of the plunder. 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


57 


Estelle and Victorine were committed to the charge of a 
forbidding-looking old hag, the mother of the sheik of the 
party ; the abbe was allowed to stray about as he pleased, 
but the two men were driven to the shore by the eloquence 
of the club. Victorine revived enough for a burst of tears 
and a sobbing cry, “Oh, they will be killed! We shall 
never see them again!” 

“No,” said Estelle, with her quiet yet childlike resolu- 
tion, “ they are not going to kill any of us yet. They said 
so. You are so tired, poor Victorine! Now all the hubbub 
is over, suppose you lie still and sleep. My uncle,” as he 
roamed round her, mourning for his rosary, “ I am afraid 
your beads are lost; but see here, these little round seeds, 
I can pierce them if you will gather some more for me, 
and make you another set. See, these will be the aves, 
and here are shells in the glass for the paters. ’ ’ 

The long fiber of glass served for the string, and the 
sight of the Giaour girl’s employment brought round her 
all the female population who had not repaired to the 
coast. Her first rosary was torn from her to adorn an 
almost naked baby; but the abbe began to whimper, and 
to her surprise the mother restored it to him. She then 
made signs that she would construct another necklace for 
the child, and she was rewarded by a gourd being brought 
to her full of milk, which she was able to share with her 
two companions, and which did something to revive poor 
Victorine. Estelle was kept threading these necklaces and 
bracelets all the wakeful hours of the day— for every one 
fell asleep about noon— though still so jealous a watch was 
kept on her that she was hardly allowed to shift her posi- 
tion to get out of the sun, which even at that season was 
distressingly scorching in the middle of the day. 

Parties were continually coming up from the beach 
laden with spoils of all kinds from the wreck, Lanty, He- 
bert, and a couple of negroes being driven up repeatedly, 
so heavily burdened as to be almost bent double. All was 
thrown down in a heap at the other end of the adowara, 
and the olc^heik kept guard over it, allowing no one to 
touch it. This went on till darkness was coming on, when, 
while the cattle were being collected for the night, the 
prisoners were allowed an interval, in which Hebert and 
Lanty told how the natives, swimming like ducks, had 
torn everything out of the wreck ; all the bales and boxes 
that poor Maitre Hebert had secured with so much care, 
and many of which he was now forced himself to open for 
the pleasure of these barbarians. 

That, however, was not the worst. Hebert concealed 
from his little lady what Lanty did not spare Victorine. 

“ And there— enough to melt the heart of a stone— there 


58 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


laj^on the beach poor Madame la Comtesse, and all the 
three. Good was ft for you, Victorine, my jewel, that you 
were not in the cabin with them.” 

“ 1 know not,” said the dejected Victorine; ‘‘ they are 
better otf than we I” 

” You would not say so if you had seen what I have,” 
said Lanty, shuddering. “The dogs!— they cut off ma- 
dame’s poor white fingers to get at her rings, and not 
with knives, either, lest her blessed flesh should defile 
them, they said, and her poor face was an angel’s all the 
time. Nay, nor that was not the worst. T^e villainous 
boys, what must they do but pelt the poor, swollen bodies 
with stones! Ay, well you may scream, Victorine. We 
went down on our knees, Maitre Hebert and I, to pray 
they might let us give them burial, but they mocked us, 
and bade Hassan say they never bury dogs. I went round 
the steeper path, for all the load at my back, or I should 
have been flying at the throats of the cowardly vultures, 
and then whiat would have become of Monsieur I’Abbe?” 

Victorine trembled and wept bitterly for her companions, 
and then asked if Lanty had seen the corpse of the little 
chevalier. 

•‘‘Not a sight of him or Monsieur Arthur, either,” re- 
turned Lanty; “only the ugly face of the old Turk captain 
and another of his crew, and them they buried decently, 
being Moslem hounds like themselves; while my poor lady 

that is a saint in heaven ” and he, too, shed tears of hot 

grief and indignation, recovering enough to warn Victorine 
by no means to let the poor young girl know of this addi- 
tional horror. 

There was little opi)ortunity, for they had been ap- 
propriated by different masters; Estelle, the abbe, and 
Hebert to the sheik, or head man of the clan ; and La)ity 
and Victorine to a big, strong, fierce-looking fellow, of 
inferior degree but greater might. 

This time Estelle was to be kept for the night among the 
sheik’s women, who, though.,too unsophisticated to veil 
their faces, had a part of the hut closed off with a screen 
of reeds, but quite as bare as the outside. Hubert, who 
could not endure to think of her sleeping on the ground, 
and saw a large heap of grass or straw provided for a 
little brown cow, endeavored to take an armful for her. 
Unluckily, it belonged to Lanty’s master, Eyoub, who 
instantly flew at him in a fury, dragged him to a log of 
wood, caught up an ax, and had not Estelle’s screams 
brought up the sheik, with Hassan and one or two other 
men, the poor maitre d' hotels head would have been off. 
There was a sharp altercation between the sheik and 
Eyoub, while Estelle held the faithful servant’s hand, say- 


A MODEBN TELEMACHUS. 


59 


ing: “ You did it for me! Oh, Hebert, do not make them 
angry again. It would be beautiful to die for one’s faith, 
but not for a handful of hay.” 

“Ah! my dear demoiselle, what would my poor ladies 
say to see you sleeping on the bare ground in a filthy 
hut?” 

” I slept well last night,” returned Estelle; ” indeed, I do 
not mind! It is onlj' the more like the dungeon at Lyons, 
you know! And I pray you, Hebert, do not get yourself 
killed for nothing too soon, or else we shall not all stand 
out and confess together, like St Blandina and St. Ponticus 
and St. Epagathius. ’ ’ 

“Alas, the dear child! The long names run off her 
tongue as glibly as ever,” sighed Hebert, who, though de- 
termined not to forsake his faith, by no means partook of 
her enthusiasm for martyrdom. Hassan, however, having 
explained what the purpose had been, Hebert was pardoned 
though the sheik scornfully observed that what was good 
enough for the daughters of a Hadji was good enough for 
the unclean child or the Frankish infidels. 

The hay might perhaps have spared a little stiffness, but 
it would not have ameliorated the chief annoyances— the 
closeness, the dirt, and the vermin. It was well that it 
was winter, or the first of these would have been far worse, 
and, fortunately for Estelle, she was one of those whom 
suffocating air rather lulls than rouses. 

Eyoub’s hovel did not rejoice in the refinement of a par- 
tition, but his family, together with their animals, lay on 
the rocky floor as best they might; and Victorine’s fever 
came on again, so that she lay in great misery , greeted by 
a growl from a great white dog whenever she tried to re- 
lieve her restless, aching limbs by the slightest movement, 
or to reach one of the gourds of water laid near the sleep- 
ers, like Saul’s cruse at his pillow. 

Toward morning, however, Lanty, who had been sittmg 
with his back against the wall, awoke from the sleep weU 
earned by acting as a beast of burden. The dog growled a 
little, but Lanty— though his leg still showed its teeth- 
marks — had made friends with it, and his hand on its head 
quieted it directly, so that he was able cautiously to hand 
a gourd to Victorine. The Arabs were heavy sleepers, and 
the two were able to talk under their breath ; as in reply to 
a kind word from Lanty, poor Victorine moaned her envy 
of the fate of Rosette and Babette ; and he, with something 
of their little mistress’ spirit, declared that he had no doubt 
but that “ one way or the other they should be out of it; 
either get safe home, or be blessed martyrs, without even a 
taste of purgatory.” 

” Ah ! but there’s worse for me, ’ ’ sighed Victorine. ‘ ‘ This 


60 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


demon brought another to stare in my face -I know he 
wants to make me his wife ! Kill me first, Laurent. ’ ’ 

“It is I that would rather espouse you, my jewel,” re- 
turned a tender whisper. 

“ How can you talk of such things at such a paoment?” 

“’Tis a pity Monsieur TAbbe is not a priest,” sighed 
Lanty. “But, you know, Victorine, who is the boy you 
always meant to take.” 

“You need not be so sure of that,” she said, the coy 
coquetry not quite extinct. 

“ Come, as you said, it is no time for fooling. Give me 
your word and troth to be my wife so soon as we have the 
good luck to come by a Christian priest by our Lady’s 
help, and I’ll outface them all— were it Mohammed the 
prophet himself, that you are my espoused and betrothed, 
and woe to him that puts a finger on you. ’ ’ 

“You would only get yourself killed.” 

“ And would not I be proud to be killed for your sake? 
Besides, I’ll show them cause not to kill me if I have the 
chance. Trust me, Victorine, my darling— it is but a 
chance among these murdering villains, but it is the only 
one; and, sure, if you pretended to turn the back of your 
hand to me when there were plenty of Christian men to 
compliment you, yet you would rather have poor Lanty 
than a thundering rogue of a pngan Mohammedan.” 

“ I hope I shall die,’’ sighed poor Victorine, faintly. “ It 
will only be your death!” 

“ That is my affair,” responded Lanty, “Come, here's 
daylight coming in; reach me your hand before this 
canaille wakes, and here’s this good beast of a dog, and 
yonder grave old goat with a face like Pere Michel’s for 
our witnesses— and by good luck here’s a bit of gilt wire 
off my shoulder -knot that I’ve made into a couple of rings 
while I’ve been speaking.” 

The strange betrothal had barely taken place before 
there was a stir, and what was no doubt a yelling impre- 
cation of the “dog Giaours ” for the noise they made. 

The morning began as before, with the exception that 
Estelle had established a certain understanding with a little 
chocolate -colored, cupid of a boy of the size of her brother, 
and his lesser sister, by letting them stroke her hair, and 
showing them the mysteries of cat’s-cradle. They shared 
their gourd of goat’s-milk with her, but would not let her 
give any to her companions. However, the abbe had only 
to hold out his hand to be fed, and the others were far too 
anxious to care much about their food. 

A much larger number of Cabeleyzes came streaming 
into the forum of the adowara, and the prisoners were all 
again placed in a row, while the new comers passed before 


A MODERN TELKMACHUS. 


61 


them, staring hard, and manifestly making personal re- 
marks which perhaps it was well that they did not under- 
stand. The sheik and Eyoub evidently regarded them as 
private property, stood in front, and permitted nobody to 
handle them, which was so far a comfort. 

Then followed a sort of council, with much gesticulation, 
in whicli Hassan took his share. Then, followed by the 
sheik, Eyoub, and some other headmen, he advanced, and 
demanded that the captives should become true believers. 
This was eked out wit*h gestures betokening that they 
would be free in that case; while, if they refused, the 
sword and the smoldering flame were pointed to, while 
the whole host loudly shouted “ Islam!” 

Victorine trembled, sobbed, tiied to hide herself; but 
Estelle stood up, her young face lighted up, her dark eyes 
gleaming, as if she were realizing a day-dream, as she 
shook her head, cried out to Lanty, “Tell him, no— 
never!” and held to her breast a little cross of sticks that 
she had been forming to complete her uncle’s rosary. Her 
gesture was understood. A man better clad than the rest, 
with a turban and a broad crimson sash, rushed up to her, 
seized her by the hair, and waved his cimeter over her 
head. The child felt herself close to her mother. She 
looked up in his face with radiant eyes and a smile on her 
lips. It absolutely daunted the fellow; his arm dropped, 
and he gazed at her as at some supernatural creature; and 
the sheik, enraged at the interference with his property, 
darted forth to defend it, and there was a general 
wrangling. 

Seconded by their interpreter, Hassan, who knew that 
the Koran did not prescribe the destruction of Christians, 
Hebert and Lanty endeavored to show that their conver- 
sion was out of the question, and that their slaughter 
would only be the loss of an exceedingly valuable ransom, 
wdiich w’ould be paid if they w’ere handed over safe and 
sou rid and in good condition. 

There was no knowing what was the effect of this, for 
the council again ended in a rush to secure the remaining 
pillage of the wreck. Hebert and Lanty dreaded what 
they might see, but to their great relief those poor remains 
had disappeared. They shuddered as they remembered the 
hyenas’ laughs and the jackals’ howls they had heard at 
nightfall; but though they hoped that the sea had been 
merciful, they could even have been grateful to the ani 
mals that hail spared them the sight of conscious insults. 

The wreck w^as finally cleared, and among the fragments 
w'ere found several portions of books. These the Arabs 
disregarded, being too ignorant even to read their own 
Koran, and yet aware of the Moliaminedan scruple vvhicli 


62 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


forbids the destruction of any scrap of paper lest it should 
bear the name of Allah, Lanty secured the greater part 
of the abbe’s breviary, and a good many pages of Estelle's 
beloved Telemaque; while the steward gained possession 
of his writing-case, and was permitted to retain it when 
the Cabeleyzes, glutted with plunder, had ascertained that 
it contained nothing of value to them. 

After everything had been dragged up to the adowara 
there ensued a sort of auction or division of the plunder. 
Poor Maitre Hebert was doomed to see the boxes and bales 
he had so diligently watched broken open by these bar- 
barians— nay, he had to assist in their own dissection when 
the secrets were too much for th(‘ Arabs. There was the 
King of Spain’s portrait rent from its costly setting and 
stamped upon as an idolatorous image. The miniature of 
the count, worn by the poor lady, had previously shared 
the same fate, but that happily was out of sight and 
knowledge. Here was the splendid plate, presented by 
crowned heads, howled over by savages ignorant of its 
use. The silver they seemed to value ; but there were t hree 
precious gold cups w^hich the salt water had discolored, to 
that they were taken for copper and sold for a very small 
pri(^e to a Jew. who somehow was attracted to the scone, 
“ like a raven to the slaughter,” said Lanty. 

This man likewise secured some of the poor lady’s store 
of rich dresses, but a good many more were appropriated 
10 maJce sashes for the men, and the smaller articles, in- 
cluding stockings, were wound turban- fashion round the 
children’s heads. 

Lanty could not help observing: “And if the saints are 
merciful to us, and get us out of this, we shall have stories 
to tell that will last our lives!” as he watched tlie solemn 
old chief smelling at the perfumes, swallowing the rouge as 
splendid medicine, and finally fingering a snuff-box, while 
half a dozen more crowded round to assist m the opening, 
and in another moment sneezing, weeping, tingling’ 
dancing frantically about, vituperating the Christian’s 
magic 

This gave Lanty an idea. A little round box lay near, 
which, as he remembered, contained a Jack-in the-’box. or 
Polichinelle, which the poor little chevalier had bought at 
the fair in Tarascon. This he contrived to secrete and 
hand to Victorine. “ Keep the secret,” he said, ” and you 
will find your best guardian in that bit of a box. And 
when, that very evening, an Arab showed some intentions 
of adding her to his harem, Victorine bethought her.self of 
the box, and unhooked in desperation. Up sprung Punch, 
long-nosed and fur-capped, right in the bearded face 

Back the man almost fell; “Shaitan, Shaitan!” was the 


A MODFJHA^ TFJLEjVArfff/S. 


63 


cry, as the inhabitants tumbled pell-mell out of the hovel, 
and Victorine and Punch remained masters of the situa- 
tion. 

She heard Lanty haranguing in broken Arabic and 
lingua Franca, and presently he came in, shaking with 
suppressed laughter. “If ever we get home,” said he, 
■ we’ll make a pilgrimage to Tarascon! Blessings on good 
St. Martha that put that sweet little imp in my way ! The 
rogues think he is the very genie that the fishermen Jet 
out of the bottle in mademoiselle’s book of the “ Thousand 
and One Nights,’’ and thought to see him towering over 
the whole place. And a fine figure he would be, with his 
hook nose and long beard. They sent me to beg you fairl}” 
to put up your little Shaitan again. I told them that 
Shaitan, as they call him, is always in it when there’s 
meddling between an espoused pair— which is as true as 
though the holy father at Rome had said it— and as long 
as they were civil, Shaitan would rest; but if they durst 
molest you, there was no saying where he would be, if 
once you had to let him out! To think of the virtue of 
that ugly face and bit of a coil of wire!” 

Meantime Hebert, having ascertained that both*the Jew 
and Hassan were going away, the one to Constantina, the 
other to Algiers, wrote, and so did Estelle, to the consul at 
Algiers, explaining their position and entreating to be ran- 
somed. Though only nine years old, Estelle could write a 
very fair letter, and the amazement of the Arabs was un- 
bounded that any female creature should wield a pen. 
Marabouts and merchants were known to read the Koran, 
but if one of the goats had begun to write, their wondt r 
could hardly have been greater; and such crowds came to 
witness the extraordinary' operation that she could scarcely 
breathe or see. 

It seemed to establish her in th^ir estimation as a sort of 
supernatural being, for she was always treated with more 
consideration than the rest of the captives, never deprived 
of the clothes she wore, and allowed to appropriate a few 
of the toilet necessaries that w'ere quite incomprehensible 
to those around her. 

She learned the names for bread, chestnuts, dates, milk, 
and water, and these were never denied to her ; and her little 
ingenuities in nursery games won the good will of the 
women and children around her, though others used to 
come and make ugly faces at her, and cry out at her as an 
unclean thing. The abbe was allowed to wander about at 
w'ill, and keep his hours, with Estelle to make the responses, 
and sometimes Hebert. He was the only one that might 
visit the other two captives; Lanty was kept hard at work 
over the crop of chestnuts that the clan had come down 


04 


A MODERN TELEMACHVS. 


from their mountains to gather in; and poor Victorine, 
who was consumed by a low fever, and almost too weak 
to move, lay all day in the dreary and dirty hut, expecting, 
but dreading death. 

Some days later there was great excitement, shouting, 
and rage. It proved the Bey of Constantina had sent to 
demand the party, threatening to send an armed force to 
compel their surrender; but, alas! the hope of a return to 
comparative civilization was instantly quashed, for the 
sheik showed himself furious. He and Eyoub stood bran • 
dishing their cimeters, and with eyes flashing like a pan- 
ther’s in the dark, declaring that thej" were free, no sub- 
jects of the dey nor the bey either ; and that they would 
shed the bloo<l of every one of the captives rather than 
yield them to the dogs and sons of dogs at Constantina. 

This embassy only increased the jealousy with which the 
prisoners were guarded. None of them were allowed to 
stir without a man with a halberd, and they had the great- 
est difficulty in intrusting a third letter to the Moor in 
command of the party. Indeed, it was only managed by 
Estelle's coaxing of the little Abou Daoud, who was grow 
ing devoted to her, and would do anything for the reward 
of hearing her sing “ Malbrook s’en va-t’-en guerre.” 

It might have been in consequence of this threat of the 
be3', much as they affected to despise it, that the Cabeleyzes 
prepared to return to the heights of Mount Araz, whence 
they had only descended during the autumn to And fresh 
pasture for their cattle, and to collect dates and chestnuts 
from the forest. 

“i^las!” said Hebert, “this is worse than ever. As 
long as we were near the sea I had -hope, but now all trace 
of us will be lost, even if the consul should send after 


“Never fear, Maitre Hebert,” said Estelle; “you know 
Telemaque was a prisoner, and tamed the wild peasants in 
Egypt.” 

“Ah! the poor demoiselle, she always seems as if she 
were acting a comedy. ’ ' 

This was happily true. Estelle seemed to be in a curious 
manner borne through the dangers and discomforts of her 
surroundings by a strange, dreamy sense of living up to 
her part, sometimes as a possible martyr, sometimes as 
figure in the mythological or Arcadian romance that had 
filtered into her nursery. 


A MODERN TELEMACHUR. 


65 


CHAPTER VI. 

A MOORISH VILLAGE. 

“ Our laws and our worship on thee thou shall take, 

And this shall thou first do for Zulema’s sake,” Hcotl. 

When Arthur Hope dashed back from the party on the 
prow of the wrecked tartan in search of little Ulysse, he 
succeeded in grasping the child, but at the same moment a 
huge j;)reaker washed him off the slippery, sloping deck, 
and after a scarce conscious struggle he found himself, 
still retaining his clutch on the boy, in the trough between 
it and another. He was happily an expert swimmer, and 
holding the little fellow’s clothes in his teeth, he was able 
to avoid the dash, and to rise on another wave. Then he 
perceived that he was no longer near the vessel, but had 
been carried out to some little distance, and his efforts 
only succeeded in keeping afloat, not in approaching the 
shore. Happily a plank drifted so near him that he was 
able to seize it and throw himself across it, thus obtaining 
some support, and being able to raise the child further 
above the water. 

At the same time he became convinced that a strong 
current, probably from a river or stream, was carrying 
him out to sea, away from the bay. He saw the black 
heads of two or three of the Moorish crew likewise float- 
ing on spars, and yielding themselves to the stream, and 
this made him better satisfied to follow their example. It 
was a sort of rest, and gave him time lo recover from the 
first exhaustion, to convince himself that the little boy 
was not dead, and to lash him to the plank with a hand - 
kerchief. 

By and by— he knew not how soon— calls and shouts 
passed between the Moors; only two seemed to survive, 
and they no longer obeyed the direction of the current, but 
turned resolutely toward the land, where Arthur dimly 
saw a green valley opening toward the sea. This was a 
much severer effort, but by this time immediate self pres 
ervation had become the only thought, and happily both 
wind and the very slight tide were favorable, so that, just 
as the sun sank beneath the western waves, Arthur felt 
foothold on a sloping beach of white sand, even as his 
powers became exhausted. He struggled up out of reach 
of the sea, and then sank down, exhausted and uncon- 
scious. 

His first impression was of cries and shrieks round him, 
as he gasped and panted, then saw as in a dream forms 
flitting round him. and then — feeling for the child and 
missing him— he raised himbolf in consternation, and the 


66 


A AfODEBN TELmiACirUS. 


movement was greeted by fresh unintelligible exclama- 
tions, while a not unkindly hand lifted him up. It be 
longed to a man in a sort of loose white garment and 
drawers, with a thin, dark-bearded face; and Arthur, rec- 
ollecting that the Spanish word nmo passed curreiit for 
child in lingua Franca, uttered it with an accent of de- 
spairing anxiety. He was answered with a volley of words 
that he only understood to be in a consoling tone, and the 
speaker pointed inland. 

Various persons, among whom Arthur saw his recent 
shipmates, seemed to be going in that direction, and he 
obeyed his guide, though scarcely able to move from ex 
haustion and cold, the garments he had retained clinging 
about him. Some one, however, ran down toward him 
with a vessel containing a draught of sour milk. This 
revived him enough to see clearly and follow his guides. 
After walking a distance, which appeared to him most la- 
borious, he found himself entering a sort of village, and 
was ushered through a courtyard into a kind of room. In 
the center a fire was burning ; several figures were busy 
round it, and in another moment he perceived that they 
were rubbing, chafing, and otherwise restoring his little 
companion. 

Indeed, Ulysse had just recovered enough to be terribly 
frightened, and as his friend’s voice answered his scream's 
he sprung from the kind brown hands, and, darting on Ar 
thur, clung to him with face hidden on his shoulder. The 
women who had been attending to him fell back as the 
white stranger entered, and almost instantly dry clothes 
were brought, and while Arthur was warming himself and 
putting them on, a little table about a foot high was set,, 
the contents of a caldron of a kind of soup which had 
been suspended over the fire were poured into a large round 
green crock, and in which all were expected to dip their 
'spoons and fingers. 

Little Ulysse was exceedingly amazed, and observed 
that ces gens were not hie7i elei^es to eat out of the dish ; but 
he Was too hungry to make any objection to being fed with 
the wooden spoon that had been handed to Arthur; and 
when the warm soup and the meat floating in it had re- 
freshed them, signs were made to them to lie down on a 
mat within an open door, and both were w^orn out enough 
to sleep soundly. 

It was daylight when Arthur was awakened bv poor lit 
tie Ulysse sitting up and crying out for his bonne, his 
mother and sister, “Oh! take me to them,” he cried; “I 
do not like this dark place. ’ ’ 

For dark the room was, being windowless, though the 
golden sunlight could be seen beyond the open doorway, 


A MODERN TELEMACHVS. 


67 


which was under a sort of cloister or veranda overhung by 
some climbing plant. Arthur, collecting himself, reminded 
the child how the waves had borne them away from the rest, 
witli earnest, soothing promises of care, and endeavoring to 
to get back to the rest. “ Say your prayers that God will 
take care o( you and bring you back to your sister,” Ar- 
thur added, for he did not think it possible that the child’s 
mother should have been saved from the waves; and his 
heart throbbed at thoughts of his promise to the poor lady. 

“But I -want my ho7i?ic, ” sighed Ulysse; “I want my 
clothes. This is an ugly robe de unit, and there is no bed.” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps we can find your clothes, ’ ’ said Arthur ‘ ‘ They 
were too wet to be kept on last night.” 

So they emerged into the court, which had a kind of 
farmyard appearance; women with rows of coins hanging 
over their brows were milking cows and goats, and there 
was a continuous confusion of sound of their voices and 
the lowing and bleating of cattle. At the appearance of 
Arthur and the boy there was a general shout, and people 
seemed to throng in to gaze at them, the men handsome, 
stately, and bearded, with white, full drawers, and a bour- 
nous laid so as first to form a flat hood over the head, and 
then belted in at the waist, with a more or less handsome sash, 
into which were stuck a spoon and knife, and in some cases 
one or two pistols. They did not seem ill-disposed, though 
their language was perfectly incomprehensible. Ulysse’ s 
clothes were lying d^ied by the hearth, and no objection 
was made to his resuming them. Arthur made gestures of 
washing or bathing, and was conducted outside the court, 
to a little stream of pure water descending rapidly to the 
sea. It was so cold that Ulysse screamed at the touch, as 
Arthur, with more spectators than he could have desired, 
did his best to perform their toilets. He had divested him- 
self of most of his own garments for the conveiiience of 
swimming, but liis pockets were left and a comb in them; 
and, though poor Mademoiselle Julienne would have been 
shocked at the result of his efforts, and the little silken 
laced suit was sadly tarnished with sea-water, Ulysse be- 
came such an astonishing sight that the children danced 
round him, the women screamed with wonder, and the men 
said “ Mashallah!” The young Scotchman’s height was 
perhaps equally amazing, for he saw them pointing up to 
his head as if measuring his stature. 

He saw that he was in a village of low houses, with walls 
of unhewn stone, inclosing yards, and set in the midst of 
fi-uit-trees and gardens. Though so far on in the autumn 
there was a rich, luxuriant appearance; roots and fruits, 
corn and flax, were laid out to dry, and girls and boys 
were driving the cattle out to pasture. He could not 


C8 


A jVODA'BN TELEMACHUS. 


doubt that he had landed among a settled and not utterly 
uncivilized people, but he was too spent and weary to exert 
himself, or even to care for much beyond present safety ; 
and had no sooner returned to his former quarters, and 
shared with Ulysse a bowl of curds, than they both fell 
asleep again in the shade of the gourd plant trained on a 
trellised roof over the wall. 

When he next awoke, Ulysse was very happily at play 
with some little brown children, as if the spor4:s of chii<l- 
hood defied the curse of Babel, and a sailor from the tartan 
was being greeted by the master of the house. Arthur 
hoped that some communication would now be possible, 
but, unfortunately, the man knew very little of the lingua 
Franca of the Mediterranean, and Arthur knew still less. 
However, he made out that he was the only one of the ship- 
wrecked crew who had managed to reach the land, and 
that this was a village of Moors— settled, agricultural Moors, 
not Arabs, good Moslems— who would do him no harm. 
This, and he pointed to a fine -looking elderly man, was the 
sheik of the village, Abou Ben Zegri, and if the young 
Giaours would conform to the true faith all would be salein 
with them. 

Arthur shook his head, and tried by word and sign to 
indicate his anxiety for the rest of his companions. The 
sailor threw up his hands and pointed toward the sea, to 
show that he believed them to be all lost; but Arthur in- 
sisted that five— marking them off on his fingers— were on 
gebal, a rock, and emphatically indicated his desire of 
reaching them. The Moor returned the word ‘ ‘ Cabeley zes. ’ ’ 
with gestures signifying throat-cutting and slavery; also 
that these present hosts regarded them as banditti. How 
far off they were it was not possible to make out, for of 
course Arthur’s own sensations were no guide; but lie 
knew that the wreck had taken place early in the after- 
noon, and that he had come on shore in the dusk, which 
was then at about five o'clock. There was certainly a 
]iromontory, made by the ridge of a hill, and also a river 
between him and any survivors there might be. 

This was all that he could gather, and he was not sure of 
even this much, but he was still too much wearied and bat- 
tered for any exertion of thought or even anxiety. Three 
days’ tempest in a co()kle-shell of a ship, and then three 
hours’ tossing on a plank, had left him little but the desire 
of I’epose, and the Moors were merciful and let him alone. 
It was a beautiful place— that he already knew. A 8(*ot, 
and used to the sea coast, his eye felt at home as it ranged 
to the grand heights in the dim distance, with winter-caps 
of snow, and, shaded in the most gorgeous tints of coloring 


A MODERN TELKMACHVSI. 00 

forests beneath, slopes covered with the exquisite green of 
young wheat. 

Autumn though it Avas, the orange-trees, laden Avith 
fruit, the cork trees, ilexes, and fan-palms, gave plenty of 
greenery, shading the gardens AAuth prickly-pear hedges ; 
and though many of the fruit-trees had lost their leaA^es, 
hg. peach, olive, and mulberry, caper plants, vines Avith 
foliage of every tint of red and purple, which were trained 
over the trellised courts of the houses, made everything 
have a look of rural plenty and peace, most unlike all that 
Arthur had ever heard or imagined of the Moors, Avho, as 
he owned to himself, Avere certainly not all savage pirates 
and slave-drivers. The Avhole Avithin Avas surrounded by 
a stone wall, Avith a deep, horseshoe-arched gatewa}", the 
fields and pastures lying beyond Avith some more slightly- 
Avalled inclosures meant for the protection of the floc& and 
herds at night. 

He saw various arts going on.- One maiiAvas Avorking in 
iron over a little charcoal fire, with a boy to bloAv up his 
bellows, and several more were busied OA^er some potteiy, 
Avhile the Avomen alternated their grinding between two 
millstones, and other domestic cares, Avith spinning, Aveav- 
ing, and beautiful embroidery. To Arthur, who looked on, 
Avith no one to speak to except little Ulysse, it aa- as strangely 
like seeing the life of the Israelites in the Old Testament 
Avhen they dAvelt under their OAvn vines and fig-trees— like 
reading a chapter in the Bible, as he said to himself, as 
again and again he saAv some allusion to Eastern customs 
illustrated. 

. He was still more struck— Avhen, after the various herds 
of kine. sheep, and goats, Avith one camel, several asses, 
and a feAv slender-limbed Barbary horsefj had been driven 
in for the night— by the sight of the population, as the sun 
sunk behind the mountains, all suspending Avhatev’er they 
were about, spreading their prayer-carpets, turning east- 
ward, performing their ablutions, and uttering their brief 
prayer Avithone voice so devoutly that he Avas almost struck 
with aAve. 

“Are they saying their prayers?” Avhispered Ulysse, 
startled by the instant change in his playfelloAvs, and as 
Arthur acquiesced, “ Then they are good.” 

“ If it Avere the true faith,” said Arthur, thinking of the 
Avide difference between this little felloAv and Estelle : but 
though not two years younger, Ulysse was far more child- 
ish than his sister, and Avhen she AA^as no longer present to 
lead him Avith her enthusiasm, sunk at once to his OAvn 
level. He opened Avide his eyes at Arthur's I’cply, and said, 
“Ido not see their idols.” 

“ They haA^e none,” said Arthur, Avho could not help 


70 


A iVODFr.xV TELEMACHUS. 


thinking that Ulysse might look nearer home for idols— but 
chiefly concerned at the moment to keep the child quiet, 
lest he should bring danger on tliem by interruption. 

They were sitting in the embowered porch of the sheik’s 
court when, a few seconds after the villagers had risen up 
from their prayer, they saw a figure enter at the village 
gateway, and the sheik rise and go forward. There were 
low bending in salutation, hands placed on the breast, then 
kisses exchanged, after which the Sheik Abou Ben Zegri 
went out with the stranger, and great excitement and 
pleasure seemed to prevail among the villagers, especially 
ilie women. Arthur heard the word “Yusuf” often re- 
ju'ated, and by the time darkness had fallen on the village 
ihe sheik ushered the guest into his court, bringing with 
him a donkey with some especially precious load— whicli 
was removed ; after which the supper was served as before 
in the large, low apartment, with a handsomely tiled 
floor, and an opening in the roof for the issue of the smoke 
from the fire, which became agreeable in the evening at 
this season. Before supper, however, the stranger’s feet 
and hands were washed by a black slave, in Eastern fash- 
ion; and then all, as before, sat on mats or cushions round 
the central bowl, each being furnished with a spoon and a 
thin, flat, soft piece of bread to dip into the mess of stewed 
kid. flakes of which might be extracted with the fingers. 

The women, who had fastened a piece of linen across 
their faces, ran about and waited on' the guests, who in- 
cluded three or four of the principal men of the village, as 
well as the stranger, who, as Arthur observed, was not of 
the uniform brown of the rest, but had some color in his 
cheeks, light eyes, and a ruddy beard, and also was of a 
larger frame than these Moors, who, though graceful, lithe, 
and exceedingly stately and dignified, hardly reached 
above young Hope’s own shoulder. Conversation was 
going on all the time, and Arthur soon perceived that he 
was the subject of it. As soon as the meal was over the 
new- comer addressed him, to his great joy, in French. It 
was the worst French imaginable — perhaps more correctly 
lingua Franca, with a French instead of an Arabic 
foundation— but it was more comprehensible than that of 
the Moorish sailor, and bore some relation to a civilized 
language; besides which there was something indescribably 
familiar in the tone of voice, although Arthur’s good 
French often missed of being comprehended. 

“Son of a great man? Embassador, French!” The 
greatness seemed impressed, but whether embassador was 
understood was another thing, though it was accepted as 
i-f^lating to the boy. 

“Secretary to the embassador,” seemed to be an equal 


A MODERN TELEMACIIUS. 


71 


problem. The man shook his head, but he took in better 
the story of the wreck, though, like the sailor, he shook 
his head over the chance of there being any survivors, and 
utterly negatived the idea of joining them. The great 
point that Arthur tried to impress was that there would be 
a very considerable ransom if the child could be conveyed to 
Algiers, and he endeavored to persuade the stranger, who 
was evidently a sort of traveling merchant, and, as he 
began to suspect, a renegade, to convey them thither ; but 
he only got shakes of the head as answers, and something 
to the effect that they were a good deal out of the dey’s 
reach in those parts, together with what he feared was an 
intimation that they were altogether in the power of Sheik 
Abou Ben Zegri. 

They were interrupted by a servant of the merchant, 
who came to bring him some message as well as a pipe and 
tobacco. The pipe was carried by a negro boy, at sight of 
whom Ulysse gave a cry of ecstasy, “Juba! .Tuba! Grand- 
mother’s Juba ! Why do not you speak to me?” as the 
little black, no bigger than Ulysse himself, grinned with all 
his white. te(dh, quite uncomprehending. 

“ Ah! my poor laddie ” exclaimed Arthur in his native 
tongue, which he often used with the boy, “ it is only an- 
other negro. You are far enough from home.” 

The words had an astonishing effect on the merchant. 
He turned round with the exclamation, “ Ye’ll be frae Scot- 
land!” 

“ And so are you!” cried Arthur, holding out his hand. 

“Tak tent, tak tent,” said the fnerchant, hastily, yet 
with a certain hesitation, as though speaking a long, un- 
familiar tongue. “The lo<'ns might jalouse our being 
overfriendly thegither.” 

Then he returned to the sheik, to whom he seemed to 
be making explanations, and presenting some of his 
tobacco, wliich probably was of a superior quality in prep- 
aration to what was grown in the village. They solemnly 
smoked together and conversed, while Arthur watched 
them anxiously, relieved that he had found an inter- 
preter, but very doubtful whether a renegade could be a 
friend, even though ho were indeed a fellow countryman. 

It was not till several pipes had been consumed, and the 
village worthies had, with considerable ceremony, taken 
leave, that the merchant again spoke to Arthur. “ I’ll see 
ye the morn : I hae tell’d the sheik we are frae the same 
parts. Maybe I can serve you, if ye ken what’s for your 
guid, but canna say mair the noo. ” 

Tlie sheik escorted him out of the court, for he slept in 
one of the two striped horse hair tents which had been 
spread within the inclosiires belonging to the village, 


72 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


around which were tethered the mules and asses that car- 
ried his wares. Arthur meanwhile arranged his little 
charge for the night. He felt that among those enemies 
to their faith he must do what was in his power to keep up 
tliat of the child, and not allow his prayers to be neglected ; 
but, not being able to repeat the Latin forms, and thinking 
them unprofitable to the boy himself, he prompted the 
saying of the Creed and Lord’s Prayer in English, and 
caused them to be repeated after him, though very sleep- 
ily and imperfectly. 

All the men of the establishment seemed to take their 
night’s rest on a mat, wrapped in a bournous, where - 
ever they chanced to find themseh'es, provided it was 
under shelter; the women in some penetralia hey ond the 
doorway, though they were not otherwise secluded, and 
only partially veiled their faces at sight of a stranger. 
Arthur had by this time made out that the sheik, who was 
a very handsome man over liiiddle age, seemed to have 
two wives; one probably of his own age, and, though 
withered up into a broAvn old mummy, evidently the ruler 
at home, wearing the most ornaments, and issuing her 
orders in a shrill, cracked tone. There was a much 
younger and handsome one, the mother apparently of two 
or three little girls from ten or twelve years old to five, 
and there was a mere girl, with beautiful, melancholy 
gazelle like eyes, and a baby in her arms. She wore no 
ornaments, but did not seem to be classed with the slaves 
who ran about at the cgmmands of the elder dame. 

However, his own position was a matter of much more 
anxious care, although he had , more hope of discovering 
what it really was. 

He had, however, to be patient. The sunrise orisons 
were no sooner paid than there was a continual resort to 
the tent of the merchant, who was found sitting there 
calmly smoking his long pipe, and ready to offer the like, 
also a cup of coffee, to all who came to traffic with him. 
He seemed to have a miscellaneous stock of coffee^* tobacco, 
pipes, preparations of sugar, ornaments in gold and silver, 
jewelry, charms, pistols, and a host of other articles in 
stock, and to be ready to pui*cbase or barter t'he.se for the 
wax, embroidered handkerchiefs, yarn, and other produc- 
tions and manufactures of the place. Not a single pur- 
chase could be made on either side without a tremendous 
haggling, shouting, and gesticulating, as if the parties were 
on the verge of coming to blows; whereas all was in good 
fellowship, and a pleasing excitement and diversion where 
time was of no value to anybody. Arthur began to de- 
spair of ever gaining attention. He was allowed to wan- 
der about as he pleased within the village gates, and 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


73 


Ulysse was apparently quite happy with the little children, 
who were beautiful and active, although kept dirty and 
ragged as a protection from the evil eye. 

Somehow the engrossing occupation of every one, espe- 
cially of the only two creatures with whom he could con- 
verse, made Arthur more desolate than ever. He lay down 
under an ilex, and his heart ached with a sick longing he 
had not experienced since he had been with the Nithsdales, 
for his mother and his home — the tall, narrow-gabled house 
that had sprung up close to the grim old peel tower, the 
smell of the sea, the tinkling of the burn. He fell asleep in 
the heat of the day, and it was to him as if he were once 
more sitting by the old shepherd on the braeside, hear- 
ing him tell the old tales of Johnnie Armstrong or Willie o’ 
the wudspurs. 

Actually a Scottish voice was in his ears, as he looked up 
and saw the turbaned head of Yusuf, the merchant, bend 
ing over him, and saying; 

“Wake up, my bonny laddie; we can hae our crack 
in peace while these folks are taking their noonday 
sleep. Aweel, and where are ye frae, and how do you ca’ 
yersel’?” 

“ I am from Berwickshire,” responded the youth, and as 
the man started— “ My name is Arthur Maxwell Hope of 
Burnside.” 

“ Eh I No a son of auld Sir Davie?” 

“ His youngest son.” 

The man clasped his hands, and uttered a strange sound, 
as if in the extremity of amazement, and there was a curi- 
ous unconscious change of tone as he said : 

“ Sir Davie’s son ! Ye’ll never have heard tell of Partan 
Jeannie?” he added. 

“ A very old fishwife,” said Arthur, ” who used to come 
her rounds to our door? Was she of kin to you?” 

“ My mither, sir. Mony’s the time I hae peepit out on 
the cuddie’s back between the creels at the door of the 
braw house of Burnside, and mony’s the bannock and 
cookie the gude lady gied me. My minnie'll no be living 
thae noo,” he added, not very tenderly. 

“ I should fear not,” said Arthur. “ I had not seen or 
heard of her for some time before I left home, and that is 
now three years ;unce. She looked very old then, and I 
remember my mother saying she was not fit to come her 
rounds." 

“ She wasna that auld,” returned the merchant, gravely; 
“but she had led sic a life as falls to the lot of nae wife in 
this country.” 

Arthur had almost said, “Whose fault was that?” but 
he dared not offend a possible protector, and softened his 


74 A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 

words into, “ It is strange to find you here, and a Moham- 
medan too.” 

“ Hoots, Maister Arthur, let that flea stick by the wa’. 
We maun do at Rome as Itome does, as ye’ll soon And 
and disregarding Arthur’s exclamation— “ and the bit bairn, 
I thocht ye said he was no Scot, when I was daundering 
awa’ at the French yestreen.” 

“No, he is half-Irish, half-French, eldest son of Count 
Burke, a good Jacobite, who got into trouble with the 
Prince of Orange, and is high in the French service. ’ ’ 

“ And what gars your father’s son to be secretaire, as ye 
ca’d it, to Frenchman or Irishman either?” 

“Well, it wa^ my own fault. I was foolish enough 
to run away from school to join the rising for our own 
king’s ” 

“ Eh, sirs! And has there been a rising on the border- 
side against the English pock puddings? Oh, gin I had 
kenned it!” 

Yusuf’s knowledge of English politics had been dim at 
the best, and he had apparently left Scotland before even 
Queen Anne wt.s on the throne. When he understood 
Arthur’s story, he communicated his own. He had been 
engaged in a serious brawl with some English Ashers, and 
in fear of the consequences had fled from Eyemouth, and 
after casting about as a common sailor in various merchant - 
ships, had been captured by a Moorish vessel, and had 
found it expedient to purchase his freedom by conversion 
to Islam, after which his Scottish shrewdness and thrift 
had resulted in his becoming a prosperous itinerant mer- 
chant. with his headquarters at Bona. He expressed him- 
self willing and anxious to do all he could for his young 
countryman ; but it would be almost impossible to do so 
unless Arthur would accept the religion of his captors ; and 
he explained that the two boys were the absolute property 
of the tribe, who had discovered and rescued them when 
going to the seashore to gather kelp for the glasswork 
practiced by the Moors in their little furnaces. 

“Forsake my religion? Never!” cried Arthur indig- 
nantlj". 

“Saftly, saftly.” said Yusuf; “nae doot ye trow as I 
did that they are a’ mere pagans and savage heathens, 
worshiping Baal and Ashtaroth, but I fand mysel' quite 
mista’en. They nae no idols, and girn at the blinded Pa- 
pists as muckle as auld Deacon Shortcoats himsel’.” 

“I know that,” threw in Arthur. 

“ Ay, and they are a hantle mair pious and devout than 
ever a body I hae seen in Eyemouth, or a’ the country-side 
to boot; forbye, my Minnie’s auld auntie, that sat graning 
by the ingle, and aye banned us when we came ben. The 


.1 .MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


ineiiee.ster himsel’ dinna gae about blessing and praying 
(wer ilka sma’ matter like the meenest of us here, and for 
a’ the din they make at hame about the honorable Sab- 
bath, ^vha thinks of praying five times the day ? AVhile as 
for being the waur for liquor, these folks ken'na the very 
taste o' it. Put yon sheik down on the wharf at Eye- 
mouth, and what wad he say to the Christian folk there?’’ 

A shock of conviction passed over Arthur, though he 
tried to lose it in indignant defense; but Yusuf did not 
venture to stay any longer with him, and, bidding him 
think over what had been said, since slavery or Islam 
were the only alternatives, returned to the tents of mer- 
chandise. 

First thoughts with the youth had of course been of hor- 
ror at the bare idea of apostasy, and yet as he watched his 
Moorish hosts, he could not but own to himself that he 
never had dreamed that to be among them would be so like 
dwelling under the oak of Mamre, in the tents of x\braham. 
From what he remembered of Partan Jeannie’s reputation 
as a being only tolerated and assisted by his mother, on ac- 
count of her extreme misery and destitution, he could believe 
that the ne'er-do-weel son, who must have forsaken her 
before he himself was born, might have really been raised 
in morality by association with the grave, faithful, and 
temperate followers of Mohammed, rather than the scum 
of the port of Eyemouth. 

For himself and the boy, what did slavery mean? He 
hoped to understand better from Yusuf, and at any rate 
to persuade the man to become the medium of communi 
cation with the outside world, beyond that “dissociable 
ocean,” over which his ^^istful gaze wandered. Then the 
ransom of the little Chevalier de Bourke would be certain, 
and, if there were any gratitude in the world, his own. 
But how long would this take, and what might befall them 
in the meantime? 

Ulysse all this time seemed perfectly happy with the 
small Moors, who all romped together without distinction 
of rank, of master, slave or color, for Yusuf’s little negro 
was freely received among them. At night, however, 
Ulvsse’s old home self seemed to revive; he crept back to 
Arthur, tired and weary, fretting for mother, sister, and 
home; and even after he had fallen asleep, waking again 
to cry for Julienne. Poor Arthur, he was a rough nurse, 
but pity kept him patient, and he was even glad to see 
that the child had not forgotten his home. 

Meantime, ever since the sunset prayer, there had been 
smoking of pipes and drinking of coffee, and earnest dis- 
cussion between the sheik and the merchant, and by and 
by Yusuf came and sat himself down by Arthur, smiling a 


A 3I0DFBX TELE3fArHUS. 


7 () 

little at the young man’s difficulty in disposing of those 
long legs upon the ground. 

“ Ye’ll have to learn this and other things, sir,” said he. 
as he crossed his own under him, Eastern fashion ; but his 
demeanor was, on the whole, that of the fisher to the 
laird’s son, and he evidently thought that he had a grand 
proposal to make, for which Master Arthur ought to he 
infinitely obliged. 

He explained to Arthur that Sheik iihou Ben Zegri had 
never had more than two sons, and that both had been 
killed the year before in trying to recover their cattle from 
the Cabelej'zes, “a sort of Hieland caterans.” 

The girl whom Arthur had noticed was the widow of the 
elder of the two, and the child was only a daughter. The 
sheik had been much impressed by Arthur’s exploits in 
swimming or floating round the headland and saving the 
child, and regarded his height as something gigantic. More- 
over, Yusuf had asserted that he was son to a great bey in his 
own country, and inconsequence Abou Ben Zegri was will- 
ing to adopt him as a son, provided he would embrace the 
true faith, and marry Ayesha, the widow. 

“And,” said Yusuf, “these women are no that ill for 
wives, as I ken ower weel ” and he sighed. “I had as 
glide and douce a wee wifie at Bona as heart culd wish, 
and twa bonnj^ bairnies; but when I cam’ back frae my 
rounds, the plague had been there before me. They were 
a’ gone, even Ali, that had just began to ca’ me Ab, Ah, 
and I hae never had heart to gang back to the town house. 
She was a gude wife — nae flying, nae rampauging. She 
wad hae died wB shame to be likened to thae randy wives 
at home. Ye might do waur than tak’ such a fair offer, 
Maister Arthur.” 

“ You mean it all kindly,” said Arthur, touched; “but 
for nothing— no, for nothing— can a Christian deny his 
Lord, or yield up his hopes for hereafter. ’ ’ 

“As for that,” returned Yusuf, “the meenester and 
Deacon Shortcoats, and my auld auntie, and the lave of 
them, aye ca'ed me a vessel of destruction. That was the 
best name they had for puir Tam. So what odds culd it 
mak, if I took up with the prophet, and I was ower lang 
leggit to row in a galley? Forbye, here they say that a 
man who prays and gies awmous, and keeps free wine, is 
sii'ker to win to Paradise and a’ the houris. 1 had rather it 
war my puir Zorah than any strange hoiiri of them a’ ; but 
anyway, 1 hae been a better man siiT 1 took up wi’ them 
than ever 1 was as a cursing, swearing, drunken, fetching 
sailor lad wha feared neither God nor devil.” 

“ That was scarce the fault of the Christian faith,” said 
Arthur. 


rl MODERN TELEMACHUR, 


Aweel, the first answer in the Shorter Carritch was a’ 
I hey ever garred me learn, and that is what we here say of 
Allah. I see no muckle to choose, and I ken ane thing— it 
is a hell on earth at ance gin ye gang not alang wi’ them. 
And that’s sicker, as ye’ll find to your cost, sir, gin ye be 
na the better guided.” 

“With liope, infinite hope, beyond,” said Arthur, trying 
to fortify himself. ” No, I cannot, cannot deny my Lord 
—my Lord that bought me!” 

“ We own Issa Ben Mariam for a prophet,” said Yusuf. 

“But He is only my Master, my Redeemer, and God. 
No, come what may, I can never renounce him.” said 
Arthur, with vehemence. 

“Weel, aweel,” said Yusuf, “maybe ye’ll see in time 
what’s for your gude. I’ll tell the sheik it would misbe- 
coine your father’s son to do sic a deed ower lichtly, and 
strive to gar him wait while I am in these parts to get your 
word, and nae doot it will be wiselike at the last.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

MASTER AND SLAVE. 

“ I only heard the reckless waters roar, 

Those waves that would not bear me from the shore. 

I only marked the glorious sun and sky. 

Too bright, too blue for my captivity. 

And felt that all which Freedom’s bosom cheers 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears.” 

Byron — “ The Corsair,” 

At the rate at which the traffic in Yusuf’s tent proceeded, 
Arthur Hope was likely to have some little time for de- 
liberation on the question presented to him whether to be a 
free Moslem sheik or a Christian slave. 

Not only had almost every liouseliold in El-Arnieh to 
chaffer with the merchant for his wares and to dispose of 
liome-made commodities, but from other adowaras and 
from hill-farms Moors and Cabyles came in with their 
produce of wax, wool, or silk, to barter — if not with Yusuf, 
with the inhabitants of El-Arnieh, who could weave and 
embroider, forge cutlery, and make glass from the raw 
material these supplied. Other Cabyles, divers from the 
coast, came up, with coral and sponges, the latter of which 
was the article in which Yusuf preferred to deal, though 
nothing came amiss to him that he could carry, or that 
could carry itself— such as a young foal; even the little 
bla<tk hoy liad been taken on speculation— and so indeed 
had the big Abyssinian, who, though dumb, was the most 
useful, ready, and alert of his five slaves. 

Every bargain seemed to occupy at least an hour, and 
perhaps Yusuf lingered the longer in order to give Arthur 


78 


A MODERN TELEMACHUR. 


more time for consideration; or it might be that his native 
tongue, once heard, exercised an irresistible fascination 
over him. He never failed to have what he called a 
“crack” with his young countryman at the hour of the 
siesta, or at night, perhaps persuading the sheik that it was 
controversial, though it was more apt to be on circum- 
stances of the day's trade or the news of the Border-side. 
Controversy indeed there could be little with one so igno- 
rant as kirk treatment in that century was apt to leave the 
outcasts of society, nor had convei*sion to Islam given 
him much instruction in its tenets; so that the conversa- 
tion generally was on earthly topics, though it always 
ended in assurances that Master Arthur would suffer for it 
if he did not perceive what was for his good. To which 
Arthur replied to the effect that he must suff(^r rather than 
deny his faith; and Yusuf, declaring that a willful man 
maun have his way, and that he would rue it too late, went 
off affronted, but always returned to the charge at the next 
opportunity. 

Meantime Arthur was free to wander about unmolested 
and pick up the language, in which, however, Ulysse made 
far more rapid progress, and could be heard chattering 
away as fast., if not as correctly, as if it were French or 
English. 

The delicious climate and the open-air life were filling 
the little fellow with a strength and vigor unknown to him 
in a Parisian salon, and he was in the highest spirits 
among his brown playfellows, ceasing to pine for his 
mother and sister ; and though he still came to Arthur for 
the night, or in any trouble, it was more and more difficult 
to get him to submit to be washed and dressed in his tight 
European clothes, or to say his prayers. He was always 
sleepy at night and volatile in the morning, and could not 
be got to listen to the little instructions with which Arthur 
tried to arm him against Mohammedanism, into which the 
poor little fellow was likely to drift as ignorantly and un- 
consciously as Yusuf himself. 

And what was the alternative? Arthur himself never 
wavered, nor indeed actually felt that he had a choice; but 
the prospect before him was; gloomy, and Yusuf did not 
soften it. The sheik would sell him, and he would either 
be made to work on some mountain- farm, or put on board 
a galley; and Yusuf had sufficient experience of the hor- 
rors of the latter to assure him emphatically that the gude 
leddy of Burnside would break her heart to think of her 
bonny laddie there. 

‘ ‘ It would more surely break her heart to think of her 
son giving up his faith,” returned Arthur. 

As to the child, the opinion of the tribe seemed to be that 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


79 


he was just fit to be sent to the sultan to be bred as a 
janizary. “ He will come that gate to be as great a man 
as in his ain countree,” said Yusuf; ‘‘wi’ horse to ride, 
and sword to bear, and braws to wear, like King Solomon 
in all his glory.” 

” While his father and mother would far rather he were 
lying dead with her under the waves in that cruel bay,” 
returned Arthur. 

“Hout, mon, ye dinna ken what’s for his gude, not for 
your ain neither,” retorted Yusuf. 

” Good here is not good hereafter.” 

“The life of a dog and waur here,” muttered Yusuf; 
” ye’ll mind me when it is too late.” 

” Nay, Yusuf, if you will only take word of our condi- 
tion to Algiers, we shall— at least the boy— be assuredly re- 
deemed, and you would win a high reward.” 

“ I am no free to gang to Algiers,” said Yusuf. ” I fell 
out with a loon there, one of those janizaries that gang 
hectoring aboot as though the world were not gude enough 
for them, and if I hadna made the best of my way out of 
the toon, my pow wad be a warricow on the wa’s of the 
tower.” 

• ‘ There are French at Bona, you say. Eemember, I ask 
you to put yourself in no danger, only to bear the tidings 
to any European,” entreated Arthur. 

“And how are they to find ye?” demanded Yusuf. 
“ Abou Ben Zegri will never keep you here after having 
evened his gude-daughter to ye. HeTl sell you to some 
corsair captain, and then the best that could betide ye wad 
be that a shot frae the Knights of Malta should make quick 
work wi’ ye. Or, look at the dumbie there, Fareek. A 
Christian, he ca’s himsel’, too, though ’tis of a by-ordinar’ 
fashion, such as Deacon Shortcoats would scarce own. I 
coft him dog cheap at Tunis, when his master, the vizier, 
had had his tongue cut out— for but knowing of some deed 
that suld ne’er have been done — and his puir feet bas- 
tinadoed to a jelly. Gin a’ the siller in the dey's treasury 
ransomed ye, what gude would it do ye after that?” 

I cannot help that— I cannot forsake my God. I must 
trust him not to forsake me.” 

“ And, as usual, Yusuf went off angrily muttering, “He 
that will to Cupar maun to Cupar.” 

Perhaps Arthur’s resistance had begun more for the sake 
of honor, and instinctive clinging to hereditary faith, with- 
out tlie sense of heroism or enthusiasm for martyrdom 
which sustained Estelle, and rather with the feeling that 
inconstancy to his faith and his Lord would be base and 
disloyal. But, as the long days rolled on, if the future of 
toil and dreary misery developed itself before him, the 


80 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


sense of personal love and aid toward the Lord and Master 
whom he served grew upon him. 

Neither the gazelle eyed Ayesha nor the prosperous vil- 
lage life presented any great temptation. He would have 
given them all for one bleak day of mist on a border moss ; 
it was the appalling contrast with the hold of a Moorish 
galley that at times startled him, together with the only 
too great probability that he should be utterly incapable of 
saving poor little Ulisse from unconscious apostasy. 

Once Yusuf observed that if he would only make out- 
ward submission to Moslem law, he might retain his own 
belief and trust in the Lord he seemed so much to love, 
and of whom he said more good than any Moslem did of 
the prophet. 

“If I deny Him, He will deny me,” said Arthur. 

“ And will na He forgive ane as is hard pressed?” asked 
Yusuf. 

“ It is a very different thing to go against the light, as I 
should be doing,” §aid Arthur, “and what it might be for 
that poor bairn, whom God preserve.” 

“And wow! sir. ’Tis far different wi’ you that had the 
best of glide learning frae the gude leddy,” muttered 
Yusuf. “My niinnie aye needit me to sort the fish and 
gang her errands, and wad scarce hae sent me to scule, gin 
I wad hae gane where they girned at me for Partan Jean- 
nie’s wean, and gied me mail* o’ the tawse than of the 
hornbook. Gin the Lord, as ye ca’ him, had ever seemed 
to me what ye say he is to you, Maister Arthur, I micht 
hae thocht twice o’er the matter. But there’s nae ganging 
back the noo. A Christian’s life they harm na, though 
they mak’ it a mere weariness to him; but for him that 
(juits the prophet, tearing the flesh wi’ iron cleeks is the 
best they hae for him.” 

This time Yusuf retreated, not as usual in anger, but as 
il the bare idea he had broached was too terrible to be 
dwelt upon. He had by the end of a fortnight completed 
all his business at El-Arnieii. and Arthur, having by this 
time picked up enough of the language to make himself 
comprehensible, and to know fully what was set before 
him, was called upon to make his decision, so that either 
h(^ might be admitted by regular ritual into the Moslem 
faith, and adopted by the sheik, or else be advertised by 
Yusuf at the next town as a strong young slave. 

Sitting in the gate among the village magnates, like an 
elder of old. Sheik Abou Hen Zegri, with considerable grace 
and dignity, set the choice before the son of the sea in most 
affectionate terms, asking of him to become the child of his 
old age. and to heal the breach left by the swords of the 
robbers of the mountains. 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


81 


The old man’s fine, dark eyes filled with tears, and there 
was a pathos in his noble manner that made Arthur greatly 
grieved to disappoint him, and sorry not to have sufficient 
knowledge of the language to qualify more graciously the 
resolute reply he had so often rehearsed to himself, ex- 
pressing his hearty thanks, but declaring that nothing 
could induce him to forsake the religion of his fathers. 

“Wilt thou remain a dog of an unbeliever, and receive 
the treatment of dogs?” 

“ I must,” said Arthur. 

The youth is a goodly youth,” said the sheik; “ it is ill 
that his heart is blind. Once again, young man, Tssa Ben 
Mariam and slavery, or Mohammed and freedom?” 

“ I cannot deny my Lord Christ.” 

There was a pause. Arthur stood upright, with lips com- 
pressed, hands clasped together, while the sheik and his 
companions seemed struck by his courage and high spirit. 
Then one of them— a small, ugly fellow, who had some pre- 
tensions to be considered the sheik’s next heir — cried, Out 
on the infidel dog!” and set the example of throwing a hand- 
ful of dust at him. The crowd who watched around were 
not slow to follow the example, and Arthur thought he was 
actually being stoned ; but the missiles were for the most 
part not harmful, only disgusting, blinding, and confusing. 
There was a tremendous hubbub of vituperation, and he 
was at last actually stunned by a blow, waking to find him- 
self alone, and with hands and feet bound, in a dirty little 
shed appropriated to camels. t?liould he ever be allowed to 
see poor Ulysse again, or to speak to Yusuf, in whom 
lay their only faint hope of redemption? He was helpless, 
and the boy was at the mercy of the Moors. Was he 
utterly forsaken? 

It vvas growing late in the day, and he had had no food 
for many hours. Was he to be neglected and starved? 
At last he heard steps approaching, iind the door was 
opened by the man who had led the assault on him, who 
addressed him as “ Son of an old ass — dog of a slave,” 
bade him stand up and show his height, at the same time 
cutting the cords that bound him. It was an additional 
pang that it was to Yusuf that he was thus to exhibit him- 
self, no doubt in order that the merchant should carry a 
description of him to some likely jnirchaser. He could not 
comprehend the words that passed, but it was very bitter 
to be handled like a horse at a fail* doubly so that he, a 
Hope of Burnside, should tlius be treated by l^artan Jean- 
nie’s son. 

There ensued outside the shrieking and roaring which 
always accompanied a bargain, and which lasted two full 
hours. Finally, Yusuf looked into the hut and roughly 


82 


A MODEBN TELEMACHUS. 


said, in Arabic, “Come over to me, dog; thou art mine. 
Kiss the shoes of thy master ’’—adding, in his native 
tongue, “For ance, sir. It maun be done before these 
loons.” 

Certainly the ceremony would have been felt as less hu- 
miliatiug toward almost anybody else, but Arthur en- 
dured it ; and then was led away to the tents beyond the 
gate. 

“There, sir,” said Yusuf, “ it ill sorts your father’s son 
to be in sic a case, but it canna be helpit. I culd na leave 
behind the bonny Scots tongue, let alane the glide Leddy 
Hope’s son.” 

“ You have been very good to me, Yusuf,” said Arthur, 
his pride much softened by the merchant’s evident sense 
of the situation. “I know you mean me well, but the 
boy ” 

“Hoots!” the bairn is happy eno’. He will come to a 
higher preferment than even you or I. Why, mon, an aga 
of the janizaries is as good as the deuk himsel’.” 

“ Yusuf, I am very grateful— I believe you must have 
paid heavily to spare me from ill usage. ’ ’ 

“Ye may say that, sir. Forty piasters of Tunis and 
eight mules and twa pair of silver-mounted pistols. The 
extortionate rogue wad hae had the little dagger, but I 
stood out against that.” 

“I see, I am deeply beholden,” said Arthur; “but it 
would be tenfold better if you would take him instead of 
me!” 9 

“What for suld I do that? He is nae countryman of 
mine— one side French and the other Irish. He is naught 
to me.” 

“He is heir to a noble house,” urged Arthur. “They 
will reward you amply for saving him.” 

“ Mail' like to girn at me for a Moor. Na, na! Hae na 
I dune enough for ye. Maister Arthur— giving half my 
beasties, and more than half my silver? Canna ye be con- 
tent without that whining bairn?” 

“ I should be a forsworn man to be content to leave the 
child, whose dead mother prayed me to protect him, amid 
those who will turn him from lier faith. See, now, I am a 
man, and can guard myself, by the grace of God; but to 
leave tlie poor child here would be letting these men work 
their will on him ere any ransom could come. His mother 
would deem it giving him up to perdition. Let me remain 
here, and take the helpless child. You know how to bar- 
gain. His price might be my ransom.” 

“Ay, when the jackals and hyenas have picked your 
banes, or you have died under the lash, chained to the oar, 
as I hae seen, Maister Arthur.” 


A MODEBy TELEMACHUS. 8ri 

“ Better so than betray tlie dead Avoman’s trust. How 
no ” 

For there was a pattering of feet, a cry of “Arthur ! Ar- 
thur!” and sobbing, screaming, and crying, Ulysse threw 
liimself on his friend’s breast. He was pursued by one or 
two of the hangers-on of the sheik’s household, and the 
first comer seized him by the arm; but he clung to Arthur, 
screamed and kicked, and the old nurse who had come 
hobbling after coaxed in vain. He cried out in a mixture 
of Arabic and French that he icould sleep with Arthur— 
Arthur must put him to bed. No one should take him 
away. 

“Let him stay,” responded Yusuf; “his time will come 
soon enough. ’ ’ 

Indulgence to children was the rule, and there was an 
easy good- nature about the race which made them ready 
to defer the storm and acquiesce in the poor little fellow 
remaining for another evening with that last remnant of 
his home to whom he always reverted at nightfall. 

He held tremblingly by Arthur till all were gone, then 
looked about in terror, and required to be assured that no 
one was coming to take him away. 

“They shall not,” he cried. “Arthur, you will not 
leave me alone? They are all gone— mamma and Estelle 
and la bonne and Laurent and my uncle and all, and you 
will not go?” 

“Not now, not to-night, my dear little mannie,” said 
Arthur, tears in his eyes for the first time throughout these 
misfortunes. 

“Not now! No, never!” said the boy, hugging him al- 
most to choking. “That naughty Ben Kader said they 
had sold you for a slave, and you were going away’; but I 
knew I should find you — you are not a slave !— you are not 
black ” 

“Ah! Ulysse, it is too true; I am ” 

“No! no! no!” the child stamped, and hung on him in a 
passion of tears. “You shall not be a slave. My papa 
shall come with his soldiers and set you free.” 

Altogether the boy’s vehemence, agitation, and terror 
were such that Arthur found it impossible to do anything 
but soothe and hush him, as best might be, till his sobs 
subsided gradually, still heaving his little chest even after 
he fell asleep in the arms of his unaccustomed nurse, who 
found himself thus baffled in using this last and only op- 
portunity of trying to strengthen the child’s faith, and was 
also hindered from pursuing Yusuf, who had left the tent. 
And if it were separation tliat caused nil this distress, 
what likelihood that Yusuf would encumber himself witli 


84 A MODKRN TELEMACHUR. 

a child who had shown such powers of Availing and scream- 
ing? 

He dared not stir nor speak for fear of Avakening the 
boy, even Avhen Yusuf returned and stretched himself on 
his mat, draAving a thick Avoolen cloth over him, for the 
nights were chill. Long did Arthur lie aAvake under the 
strange sense of slavery and helplessness, and utter uncer- 
tainty as to his fate, expecting, in fact, that Yusuf meant 
to keep him as a sort of tame animal, to talk Scotch; but 
hoping to work on him in time to favor an escape, and at 
any rate to dispatch a letter to Algiers, as a forlorn hope 
for the ultimate redemption of the poor little unconscious 
cliild Avho lay warm and heavy across his breast. Cer- 
tainly, Arthur had neA^er so prayed for aid, light, and de- 
liverance as now! 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE SEARCH. 

“ The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks, 

The long daj’ wanes, the slow moon climbs. The deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.” 

‘ Tennyson. 

Arthur fell asleep at last, and did not waken till after 
sunrise, nor did Ulysse, who must ha\^e been exhausted 
with crying and struggling. When they did aAvaken, 
Arthur thinking with heavy heart that the moment of 

E arting Avas come, he saw, indeed, the other three slaves 
Lisied in making bales of the merchandise; but the mas- 
ter, as Avell as the Abyssinian, Fareek, and the little negro 
Avere all missing. Bekir, avIio was a kind of foreman, and 
looked on the new Avhite slave Avith some jealousy, roughly 
pointed to some coarse food, and in reply to the question 
whether the merchant Avere taking leave of the sheik, in- 
timated that it Avas no business of theirs, and assumed au - 
thority to make his new felloAv-slave assist in the hardest 
of the packing. Arthur had no heart to resist, much as it 
galled him to be ordered about b}' this rude fellow. It Avas 
only a taste, as he Avell kneAv, of Avhat he had embraced, 
and he Avas touched by poor little Ulysse' s persistencj’’ in 
keeping as close as possible, though his playfelloAvs came 
doAvn and tried first to lure, then to drag him aAvay, and 
finally remained to watch the process of packing up. 
Though Bekir Avas too disdainful to reply to his fellow - 
slave’s questions, Arthur picked up from ansAvers to the 
Moors Avho came doAvn that Yusuf had recollected that he 
had not finished his transactions Avith a little village of 
Cabyle coral and sponge fishers on the coast, and had gone 
down thither, taking the little negro, to whom the head 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


85 


man seemed to have taken a fancy, so as to become a pos- 
sible purchaser, and with the Abyssinian to attend to the 
mules. 

A little before sundown Yusuf returned. Fareek lifted 
down a pannier covered by a crimson -and -yellow kerchief, 
and Yusuf declared, with much apparent annoyance, that 
the child was sick, and that this had frustrated the sale. 
He w^as asleep, must be carried into the tent, and not dis- 
turbed; for though the Cabyles had not purchased him, 
there was no affording to lose anything of so much value. 
Moreover, observing Ulysse still hovering around the Scot, 
he said, “ You may bide here the night, laddie, I ha telFt 
the sheik;” and he repeated the same to the slaves in 
Arabic, dismissing them to hold a parting feast on a 
lamb stuffed with pistachio nuts, together with their vil- 
lage friends. 

Then drawing near to Arthur, he said, “Can ye gar yon 
wean keep a quiet sough, if we make him pass for the little 
black?” 

Arthur started with joy, and stammered some words of 
intense relief and gratitude. 

“ The deed’s no dune yet,” said Yusuf, “and it is ower 
like to end in our leaving a’ our banes on the sands! But 
a wilfu’ man maun have his way,” he repeated; “ so, sir, 
if it be your wull, ye’d better speak to the bairn, for we 
must make a blackamoor of him while there is licht to do 
it, or the Bekir, whom I dinna lippen to, comes back frae 
the feast.” 

Ulysse, being used to Irish -English, had little under- 
standing of Yusuf’s broad Scotch; but he was looking 
anxiously from one to the other of the speakers, and when 
Arthur explained to him that the disguise, together with 
perfect silence, was the only hope of not being left behind 
among the Moors, and the best chance of getting ba(‘K; to 
his home and dear ones again, he perfectly understood. As 
to the blackening, for which Yusuf had prepared a mixture 
to be laid on with a feather, it was perfectly enchanting to 
faire la comedie. He laughed so much that he had to be 
peremptorily hushed, and they were sensible of the danger 
that in case of a search he might betray himself to his 
Moorish friends: and Arthur tried to make him compre- 
hend the extreme danger, making him cry so that his 
cheeks liad to be touched up. His eyes and hair were 
dark, and the latter was cut to its shortest by Yusuf, who 
further managed to fasten some tufts of wool dipped in the 
iilack unguent to the kerchief that bound his head. The 
eliildish features had something of the Irish cast, which 
lent itself to the transformation, and in the scanty gar 
ments of the little negro Arthur owned that he should 


86 


.4 MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


never have known the small French gentleman. Arthur 
was full of joy — Yusuf gruff, brief, anxious, like one act- 
ing under some compulsion most unwillingly, and even 
despondently, but apparently constrained by a certain in- 
stinctive feudal feeling, which made him follow the desires 
of the young border laird’s son. 

All had been packed beforehand, and there was nothing 
to be done but to strike the tents, saddle the mules, and 
start. Ulysse, still very sleepy, was lifted into the pan- 
nier, almost at the first streak of dawn, while the slaves 
were grumbling at being so early called up; and to a 
Moor, who woke up and offere<i to take charge of the little 
bey, ihisuf replied that the child had been left in the sheik’s 
house. 

So they were safely out at the outer gate, and proceed- 
ing along a beautiful path leading above the cliffs. The 
mules kept in one long string, Bekir with the foremost, 
which was thus at some distance from the hindmost, which 
carried Ulysse and was attended by Arthur, while the 
master rode his own animals and gave directions. The 
fiction of illness was kept up, and when the bright eyes 
looked up in too lively a manner, Yusuf produced some of 
the sweets, which were always part of his stock in trade, 
as a bribe to quietness. 

At sunrise the halt for prayer was a trial to Arthur’s in- 
tense anxiety, and far more so was the noontide one for 
sleep. He even ventured a remonstrance, but -was an 
swered, “ Mair haste, worse speed. Our lives are no worth 
a boddle till the search is over.” 

They were on the shady side of a great rock overhung by 
a beautiful creeping plant, and with a spring near at hand, 
and Yusuf, in leisurely fashion, squatted down, caused Ar- 
thur to lift out the child, who was fast asleep again, and 
the mules to be allowed to feed, and distributed some dried 
goat’s flesh and dates; but Ulysse, somewhat to Arthur's 
alarm, did not wake sufficiently to partake. 

Looking up in alarm, he met a sign from Yusuf, and 
presently a \vhisper, ” No hurt done— ’tis safer thus " 

And by this time there were alarming sounds on the 
air. The sheik and two of the chief men of El-Arnieh 
were on horseback and armed with matchlocks; and the 
whole jyosse of the village were following on foot, with yells 
and vituperations of the entire ancestry of the merchant, 
and far more complicated and furious threats than Arthur 
could follow ; but he saw Yusuf go forward to meet them 
with the utmost cool courtesy. 

They seemed somewhat discomposed. Yusuf appeared to 
condole with them on the loss, and, waving his hands, put 
all his baggage at their service for a s(*arch. lettitig then) 


A M0M:RX TKLEMACHUS. 


87 


run spears through the bales, and overturn the baskets of 
sponges, and search behind every rock. When they ap- 
proached the sleeping boy, Arthur, with throbbing heart, 
dimly comprehended that Yusuf was repeating the story 
of the disappointment of a purchase caused by his illness, 
and lifting for a moment the covering laid over him to 
show the bare black legs and arms. There might also 
have been some hint of infection which, in spite of all Mos-' 
lem belief in fate, deterred Abou Ben Zegri from an over- 
close inspection. Yusuf further invented a story of having 
put the little Frank in charge of a Moorish woman in the 
adowara; but added he was so much attached to the son of 
the sea that most likely he had wandered out in search of 
him, and the only wise course would be to seek him before 
he was devoured by any of the wild beasts near home. 

Nevertheless, there was a courteous and leisurely smok- 
ing of pipes and drinking of coffee before the sheik and his 
followers turned homewai-d. To Arthur’s alarm and sur- 
prise, however, Yusuf did not resume the journey, but told 
Bekir that there would hardly be a better halting-place 
within their powers, as the sun was already some way on 
his downward course; and besides, it would take some 
time to repack the goods which had been cast about in 
every direction during the search. 

The days were at their shortest, though that was not 
very short, closing in at about five o’clock, so that there 
was not much time to spare. Arthur began to feel some 
alarm at the continued drowsiness of the little boy, who 
only once muttered something, turned round, and slept 
again. 

“What have you done to him?” asked Arthur, anx- 
iously. 

“ The poppy,” responded Yusuf. “ Never fash yoursel’. 
The bairn willna be a hair the waur, and ’tis better so than 
that he shuld rax a’ our craigs.” 

Yusuf’s peril -svas so much the greater that it was impos- 
sible to object to any of his precautions, especially as he 
might take offense and throw the whole matter over ; but 
it was impossible not to chafe secretly at the delay, which 
seemed incomprehensible. Indeed, the merchant was 
avoiding private communication with Arthur, only assum- 
ing the master, and ordering about in a peremptory fashion 
which it \vas very hard to digest. 

After the sunset orisons had been performed, Yusuf re- 
galed his slaves with a donation of coffee and tobacco, but 
with a warning to Arthur not to partake, and to keep to 
windward of them. So, too, did the Abyssinian, and the 
cause of the warning was soon evident, as Bekir and his com- 
panion nodded, and then sank into a slumber as sound as 


^8 A 3rODERN TELEM^iCHUS. 

that of the little Frenchman. Indeed, Arthur himself was 
weary enough to fall asleep soon after sundown, in spite of 
his anxiety, and the stars were shining like great lamps 
when Yusuf awoke him. One mule stood equipped beside 
him, and held by the Abyssinian. Yusuf pointed to the 
child, and said : “ Lift him upon it.” 

Arthur obeyed, finding a pannier empty on one side to 
receive the child, who only muttered and writhed instead of 
awaking. The other side seemed laden. Yusuf lead the 
animal, retracing their way, while fire-flies flitted around 
with their green lights, and the distant laughter of hyenas 
gave Arthur a thrill of loathing horror. Huge bats flut- 
tered round, and once or twice grim shapes crossed their 
path. “ Uncanny beasties,” quoth Yusuf; “ but they will 
soon be behind us.’’ 

He turned into a rapidly sloping path. Arthur felt a 
fresh salt breeze in his face, and his heart leaped up with 
hope. 

In about an hour and a half they had reached a cove, 
shut in by dark rocks which in the night looked immeas- 
urable, but on the white beach a few little huts were dimly 
discernible, one with a liglit in it. The sluggish dash of 
waves could be heard on the shore ; there was a sense of in- 
finite space and breadth before them; and Jupiter, sitting 
in the northwest, was like an enormous lamp, casting a 
jmthway of light shimmering on the waters to lead the ex- 
iles home. 

Three or four boats were drawn up on the beach ; a man 
rose up from within one, and words in a low voice were ex- 
changed between him and Yusuf; while Fareek, grinning 
so that his white teeth could be seen in the starlight, un- 
loaded the mule, placing its packs, a long Turkisk blunder- 
buss, and two skins of water in the boat, and arranging a 
mat on which Arthur could lay the sleeping child. 

Well might the youth’s heart bound with gratitude, as 
unmindful of all the further risks and uncertainties to be 
encountered, he almost saw his way back to Burnside! 


CHAPTER IX. 

ESCAPE. 

“ Beside the helm he sat, steering expert, 

Nor sleep fell ever on his eyes that watch’d 
Intent the Pleiads, tardy in decline, 

Bootes and the Bear, call’d else the Wain, 

Which in his polar prison circling, looks 
Direct toward Orion, and alone 
Of these sinks never to the briny deep.” 

Odyssey (Cowper;. 

The boat was pushed off, the Abyssinian leaped into it ; 

Arthur paused to pour out his thankfulness to Yusuf, but 


A MODFRX TELEMACHUS, 


89 


was met ^yith the reply, “ Hout awa’ ! Time emigh for 
that — in vvi’ ye.” And fancying there was some alarm, he 
sprung in, and to his amazement found Yusuf instantly at 
his side, taking the rudder and giving some order to 
Fareek, who had taken possession of a pair of oars; while 
the water seemed to flash and glitter a welcome at every 
dip. 

“You are coming! you are coming!” exclaimed Arthur, 
clasping the merchant’s hand, almost beside himself with 

joy. 

”Sma' hope wad there be of a callant like yersel’ and 
the wean there winning awa’ by yer lane,” growled 
Yusuf. 

“ You have given up all for us.” 

” There wasna muckle to gie,” returned the sponge mer- 
chant. ”Sin’ the gudewife and her bit bairnies at Bona 
Avere gane, I hadna the heart to gang thereawa’ nor quit 
the sound o’ the bonny Scots tongue. I wad as soon gang 
to the bottom as to .the toom house. For dinna ye trow 
yersells ower sicker e’en the noo.’' 

” Is there fear of pursuit?” 

“No mickle o’ that. The folk here are what they ca’ 
Cabyles, a douce set, not forgathering Avith Arabs nor aa i’ 
Moors. I Avad na gang among them till the search Avas 
over to-day, but yesterday I saAV yon carle, and coft the 
boatie frae him for the AA^ee blackamoor and the mule. 
The Moors at El- Aziz are not seafaring; and gin the morn 
they jalouse Avhat we hav^e done, Ave have the start of 
them. Na, I’m not feared for them; but forbye that, this 
is no the season for an open boatie aau’ a crew of three and 
a wean. Gin Ave met an Algerian or Tunisian cruiser, as 
Ave are maist like to do, a bullet or drooning wad be OAver 
glide in their een for us— for me, that is to say. They aa ad 
spare the bairn, and may think you too likely a lad to 
hang on the AA^alls like a split corbie on the Avoodsman’s 
lodge. ’ ’ 

“Well, Yusuf, my name is Hope, you knoAv,” said 
Arthur. “God has brought us so far, and Avill scarce 
leave us now. I feel three times the man that I AA^as Avlnm 
I lay doAvn this evening. Do we keep to the north, Avhere 
Ave are sure to come to a Christian land in time?” 

“ Easier said than done. Ye little ken what the currents 
are in this same sea, or deed ye’ll soon ken Avhen Ave get 
into them.” 

Arthur satisfied himself that they Avere making for the 
north by looking at the pole star, so much lower than he 
Avas used to see it in Scotland that he hardly recognized 
his old friend: but, as he xA^atched the studded belt of the 
iuinter and the glittering Pleiades, the Horatian dread of 


90 A MODERN TELEMAOHUS. 

Nimbosus Orion occurred to him as a thought to be put 
away. 

Meantime there was a breeze from the land, and the sail 
was hoisted. Yusuf bade both Arthur and Fareek lie down 
to sleep, for their exertions would be wanted by and by, 
since it would not be safe to use the sail by daylight. It 
was very cold— wild blasts coming down from the mount- 
ains ; but Arthur crept under the woolen mantle that had 
^ been laid over Ulysse, and was weary enough to sleep 
soundly. Both were awakened by the lowering of the 
mast; and the little boy, who had quite slept off the drug, 
scrambling out from under the covering, was astonished 
beyond measure at finding himself between the glittering, 
sparkling expanse of sea and the sky, where the sun had 
just leaped up in a blaze of gold. 

The white summits of Atlas were tipped with rosy light, 
beautiful to behold, though the voyagers had much rather 
have been out of sight of them. 

“ How much have we made, Yusuf?” began Arthur. 

“Tam Armstrong, so please you, sir! Yusuf’s dead 
and buried the noo; and if I were further bej*ant the 
grip of them that kenned him, my thrapple would feel all 
the sounder!” 

This day was, he further explained, the most perilous one, 
since they were by no means beyond the track of vessels ply- 
ing on the coast ; and as a very jagged and broken cluster 
of rocks lay near, he decided on availing themselves of 
the shelter they afforded. The boat was steered into a 
narrow channel between two which stood up like the fangs 
of a great tooth, and afforded a pleasant shade; but there 
was such a screaming ai:d calling of gulls, terns, cor- 
morants, and all manner of other birds, as they entered 
the little strait, and such a cloud of them hovered and 
^whirled overhead, that Tam uttered imprecations on tlieir 
skirling, and bade his companions lie close and keep quiet 
till they had settled again, lest the commotion should be- 
tray that the rocks were the lair of fugitives. 

It was not easy to keep Ulysse quiet, for he was in 
rapture at the rush of winged creatures, and no less so at 
the wonderful sea-anemones and starfish in the pools, 
where long streamers of weed of beautiful colors floated 
on the limpid water. 

Nothing reduced him to stillness but the sight of the 
dried goat’s flesh and dates that Tam Armstrong pro- 
duced, and for which all had appetites, which had to be 
checked, since no one could tell how long it would be be- 
fore any kind of haven could be reached. 

Arthur bathed himself and his charge in a pool, after 
Tam had nscertained that no manj’-armed squid or cuttle- 


A MODEKA TELEMACHUS. 


91 


fish lurked within it. And while Ulysse disported himself 
like a little fish, Arthur did his best to restore him to his 
natural complexion, ai^d tried to cleanse the little garments, 
which showed only too plainly the lack of any change, and 
which were the only Frank or Christian clotlies among 
them, since young Hope himself had been almost stripped 
when he came ashore, and w’ore the usual garb of Yusuf’s 
slaves. 

Presently Fareek made an imperative sign to hush the 
child's merry tongue; and peering forth in intense anx- 
ietj^, the others perceived a lateen sail passing perilouslv 
near, but happily keeping aloof from the sharp reef of 
rocks around their shelter. Arthur had forgotten the 
child’s prayers and his own, but Ulysse connected them 
with dressing, and the alarm of the passing ship had re- 
called them to the young man’s mind, though he felt shy 
as he found that Tam Armstrong was not asleep, but was 
listening and watching with his keen gray eyes under 
their grizzled brows. Presently, when Ulysse was drop- 
ping to sleep again, the ex- merchant began to ask ques- 
tions with the intelligence of his shrewd Scottish brains. 

The stern Calvinism of the North was wont to consign to 
utter neglect the outcast border of civilization, where there 
Avere no decent parents to pledge themselves; and Partan 
Jeannie’s son had grown up well-nigh in heathen igno- 
ance among fisher lads and merchant sailors, till it had 
been left for him to learn among the Mohammedans both 
temperance and devotional habits. His whole faith and 
understanding would have been satisfied forever ; but there 
had been strange yearnings within him ever since he had 
lost his wife and children, and these had not passed away 
when Arthur Hope came in his path. Like many another 
renegade, he could not withstand the attraction of his 
native tongue; and in tliis case it Avas doubled by the 
feudal attachment of the district to the family of Burnside, 
and a grateful remembrance of the lady who had been one 
of the very feAv persons Avho had ever done a kindly deed 
by the little outcast. He had broken Avith all his Moslem 
tfes for Arthur Hope’s sake; and these being left behind, 
he began to make some inquiries about that Christian 
faith to Avhich he must needs return — if return be the 
right word in the case of one who knew so little Avhen he 
had abjured it. 

And Arthur had not been bred to the grim reading of 
the doctrine of predestination Avhich had condemned poor 
Tarn, even before he had embraced the faith of the 
prophet. Boyish, and not over-thoughtful, tlie youth, 
when brought face to face with apostasy, had been read\ 
to give life or liberty rather than deny liis Lord; and deep- 


92 


d MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


ened by that great decision, he could hold up that Lord 
and Eedeemer in colors that made Tam see that his cling- 
ing to his faith was not out of meref honor and constancy, 
but that Mohammed had been a poor and wretched sub- 
stitute for him whom the poor fellow had denied, not 
knowing what he did. 

“ Weel!” he said, “ gin the deacon and the auld aunties 
had tellt me as mickle about him, thae Moors might ha’ 
preached their thrapples sair for Tam. Mashallah ! Mais 
ter Arthur, do ye think, noo, he can forgie a puir carle for 
turning frae him an’ disowning him?” 

‘*1 am sure of it, Tam. He forgives all who come to 
him— and you— you did it in ignorance.” 

“And you trow na that I am a vessel of wrath, as they 
aye said?” 

“No, no, no, Tam. How could that be with one who 
has done what you have for us? There is good in you— 
noble goodness, Tam; and Avho could have put it there but 
God, the Holy Spirit? I believe myself he was leading 
you all the time, though you did not know it; making you 
a better man first, and now, through this brave kindness 
to us, bringing you back to be a real true Christian and 
know him.” 

Arthur felt as if something put the words into his mouth, 
but he felt them with all his heart, and the tears were in 
his eyes. 

At sundown Tam grew restless. Force of habit im- 
pelled him to turn to Mecca and make his devotions as 
usual, and after nearly kneeling down on the flat stone, he 
turned to Arthur and said, “ I canna weel do without the 
bit prayer, sir.” 

“ No, indeed, Tam. Only let it be in the right name.” 

And Arthur knelt down beside him and said the Lord's 
Prayer— then, under a spell of bashfulness, muttered special 
entreaty for protection and safety. 

They were to embark again now that darkness would 
veil their movements, but the wind blew so much from 
the north that they could not raise the sail. The oars 
were taken by Tam and Fareek at first, but when they 
came into difficult currents Arthur changed places with the 
former. 

And thus the hours passed. The Mediterranean may be 
in our eyes a European lake, but it was quite farge 
enough to be a desert of sea and sky to the little crew of 
an open boat, even though they were favored by the 
weather. Otherwise, indeed, they must have perislied in 
the first storm. They durst not sail except by night, and 
then only with northerly winds, nor could there be much 
rest, since they could not lay to and drift with the cur 


A MOT}t:RN TELEMACHUS. S3 

rents, lest they should be carried back to the African 
coast. 

Only one of the three men could sleep at a time, and that 
by one of the others taking both oars, and in time this 
could not but become very exhausting. It was true that 
all the coasts to the north were of Christian lands ; but in 
their Moorish garments and in perfect ignorance of Ital- 
ian, strangers might fare no better in Sardinia or Sicily 
than in Africa, and Spain might be no better; but Tam en- 
deavored to keep a northwesterly course, thinking from 
what Arthur had said that in this direction there was 
more chance of being picked up by a French vessel. 
Would their strength and provisions hold out? Of this 
there was serious doubt. Late in the year as it was, the 
heat and glare were as distressing by day as was the cold 
by night, and the continued exertion of " rowing produced 
thirst, which made it very difficult to husband the water 
in the skins. Tam and Fareek were both tough, and in- 
ured to heat and privation ; but Arthur, scarce yet come 
to his full height, and far from having attained propor- 
tionate robustness and muscular strength, could not help 
flagging, though, Avhenever, .steering was of minor impor- 
tance, Tam gave him the rudder, moved by his wan looks, 
for he never complained, even when fragments of dry 
goat’s flesh almost choked his parched mouth. The boy 
was never allowed to want for anything save water; but it 
Avas very hard to hear him fretting tor it. Tam took the 
goatskin into his own keeping, and more than once uttered 
a rough reproof, and yet Arthur saw him give the child 
half of his own precious ration when it must have in- 
volved grievous suffering. The promise about giving the 
cup of cold water to a little one could not but rise to his 
lips. 

“ Cauld 1 and I wish it were cauld !” was all the response 
Tam made, but his face showed some gratification. 

This was no season for traffic, and they had barely seen 
a sail or two in the distance, and these only such as the ex- 
perienced eyes of the ex-sponge-merchant held to be dan- 
gerous. Deadly lassitude began to seize the young Scot; 
he began scarcely to heed what was to become of them, 
and had not energy to try to console Ulysse, who, having 
in an un watched moment managed to SAvalloAv some sea- 
water, was crying and wailing under the additional misery 
he had inflicted on himself. The sun beat down with noon- 
tide force, when on that fourth day, turning from its 
scorching, his languid eye espied a sail on the northern 
horizon. 

“fSee,” he cried. that is not the way of the Moors.’’ 


94 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


“Bismillah! I beg your pardon, sir,*' cried Tam, but 
said no more, only looked intently. 

Gradually, gradually the spectacle rose on their view 
fuller and fuller, not the ruddy wings of the Algerine or 
Italian, but the square, white, castle- like tiers of sails ris- 
ing one above another, bearing along in a southeasterly di- 
rection. 

“ English or French,’* said Tam, with a long breath, for 
her colors and build were not yet discernible. “Mash- 
allah ! I beg pardon. I mean, God grant she pass us not 
by!” 

The mast was hastily raised, with Tam’s turban unrolled 
floating at the top of it; and while he and Fareek plied 
their oars with might and main, he bade Arthur fire off at 
intervals the blunderbuss, which had hitherto lain idle at 
the bottom of the boat. 

How long the intense suspense lasted they knew not ere 
Arthur cried, “They are slackening sail! Thank God. 
Tam, you have saved us! English!” 

“ Not so fast !” Tam uttered an Arabic and then a Scot- 
tish interjection. 

Their signal had been seen other eyes. An unmistak- 
able Algerine, with the crescent flag, was bearing down on 
them from the opposite direction. 

“Hascals. Do they not dread the British flag?” cried 
Arthur. “Surely that will protect us?” 

“They are smaller and lighter, and with their galley- 
slaves can defy tlie wind, and loup off like a flea in "a 
blanket,” returned Tam, grimly. “ Mair by token, they 
guess what we are, and will hold on to hae my life’s bluid 
if naething mair! Here! Gie us a soup of the water, and 
the last bite of flesh. 'Twill serve us the noo, and we shall 
need it nae mair any way.” 

Arthur fed him, for he dared not slacken rowing for a 
moment. Then seeing Fareek, who had borne the brunt of 
the fatigue, looking spent, the youth, after swallowing a 
few morsels and a little foul-smelling drink, took the sec- 
ond oar, while double force seemed given to the long arms 
lately so weary, and both pulled on in silent, grim despera 
tion. Ulysse had given one scream at seeing the last of the 
water swallowed, but he too understood the situation, and 
obeyed Arthur’s brief words “Kneel down and pray for 
us, my boy.” 

The Abyssinian was evidently doing the same, after hav- 
ing loaded the blunderbuss; but it was no longer necessary 
to use this as a signal, since the frigate had lowered her 
boat, which was rapidly coming tow ard them. 

But, alas! still more swiftly, as it seemed to those terri 
fi<?d eyes, came the Moorish boat longer, narrower, mc v*" 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 95 

favored by currents and winds, flying like a falcon toward 
its prey. It was a fearful race. Arthur’s head began to 
swim, his breath to labor, his arms to move stiffly as a 
thresher’s flail ; but, just as power w as failing him, an En- 
glish cheer came over the waters, and restored strength 
for a few more resolute strokes. 

Then came some puffs of smoke from the pirate’s boat, 
a report, a jerk of their own, a fresh dash forw^ard, even 
as Fareek fired, giving a moment’s check to the enemy. 
There Avas a louder cheer, several shots from the Engli.sh 
boat, a cloud from the ship’s side. Then Arthur was sen- 
sible of a relaxation of effort, and that the chase was over, 
then that the British boat was alongside, friendly voices 
ringing in his ears, “How now, mates? Runaways, eh? 
Where d’ye hail from?” 

“Scottish! British!” panted out Arthur, unable to utter 
more, faint, giddy, and astounded by the cheers around 
him, and the hands stretched out in ^velcome. He sea reel v 
saw or undei’stood. 

‘ ‘ Queer customers here ! What ! a child ! Who are you, 
my little man? And what’s this? A Moor! He’s hit- 
pretty hard, too.” 

This brought back Arthur’s reeling senses in one flash of 
horror, at the sight of Tam, bleeding fast in the bottom of 
the boat. 

“Oh, Tam! Tam! He saved me! He is Scottish too,” 
cried Arthur. “Sir, is he alive?” 

“I think so,” said the officer, wdio had bent over Tam. 
“ We’ll have him aboard in a minute, and see wfflat the 
doctor can do with him. You seem to have had a narrow’ 
escape.” 

Arthur w-as too busy endeavoring to stanch the blood 
wfflich flow’ed fast from poor Tam’s side to make much 
reply, but Ulysse, perched on the officer’s knee, was an- 
swering for him in mixed English and French. “Moi, je 
suis le Chevalier de Bourke! My' papa is embassador to 
Sw’eden. This gentleman is his secretary. We w’ere ship 
w'recked— and Monsieur Arture and I swam away together. 
The Moors w^ere good to us, and w’anted to make us Moors; 
but Monsieur Arture said it Avould be wicked. And Yusuf 
bought him for a slave ; but that w^as only from faire la 
comedie. He is bon Chretien after all, and so is poor 
Fareek, onlj' he is dumb. Yusuf — that is, Tam — made me 
all black, and changed me for his little negro boy ; and w e 
got into the boat, and it was very hot, and oh! T am so 
thirsty. And now Monsieur Arture w’ill take me to Mon 
sieur mon Pere, and get me some nice clothes again,” con- 
cluded the young gentleman, who, in this moment of re- 


90 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


turn to civilized society, had become perfectly aware of 
his own rank and importance. 

Arthur only looked up to verify the child]s statements, 
which had much struck the lieutenant. Their boat had by 
this time been towed alongside of the frigate, and poor 
Tam was hoisted on board, and the surgeon was instantly 
at hand ; but he said at once that the poor fellow was fast 
dying, and that it would be useless torture to carry him 
b(ilow for examination. 

A few words passed with the captain, and then the little 
chevalier was led away to tell his own tale, which he was 
doing with a full sense of his own importance; but pres 
ently the captain returned, and beckoned to Arthur, who 
had been kneeling beside poor Tam, moistening his lips 
and bathing his face, as he lay gasping and apparently un - 
conscious, except that he had gripped hold of his broad 
sash or girdle when it was taken off. 

“The child tells me he is Comte de Bourke’s son,” said 
the captain, in a tentative manner, as if doubtful whether 
he should be understood, and certainly Arthur looked 
more Moorish than European. 

“ Yes, sir. He was on his way with his mother to join 
his father when we were taken by a Moorish corsair.” 

“ But you are not French?” said the captain, recognizing 
the tones. 

‘ ‘ No, sir ; Scottish— Arthur Maxwell Hope. 1 was to 
have gone as the count’s secretary.” 

“You have escaped from the Moors? 1 could not un 
derstand what the boy said. Where are the lady and the 
rest?” 

Arthur as briefly as he could, for he was very anxious to 
return to poor Tam, explained the wreck and the subse- 
quent adventures, saying that he feared the poor countess 
was lost, but that he had seen her daughter and some of 
her suit on a rock. Captain Beresford was horrified at the 
idea of a Christian child among the wild Arabs. His sta- 
tion was Minorca, but he had just been at the Bay of Rosas, 
where poor Comte de Bourke’s anxiety and distress about 
his wife and children were known, and he had received a 
request amounting to orders to try to obtain intelligence 
about them, so that he held it to be within his duty to make 
at once for Djigheli Bay. 

For further conversation was cut short by sounds of ar- 
ticulate speech from poor Tam. Arthur turned hastily, and 
the captain proceeded to give his orders. 

“ Is Maister Hope here?” 

“Herel Yes, O Tam, dear Tam, if 1 could do any- 
thing!” cried Arthur. 


A MODERN TELKMACHUf^. 97 

“I canna see that well/’ said Tam, with a sound of anx- 
iety. “ Where’s my sash? ’ 

This is it, in your own hand,’* said Arthur, thinking he 
was wandering, but the other hand sought one of the ample 
folds, which was sewn over, and weighty. 

“Tak’ it; tak’ tent of it; ye’ll need the siller. Four 
hundred piasters of Tunis, not countin’ zecchins, and other 
sma’ coin.” 

” Shall I send them to any one at Eyemouth?” 

Tam almost laughed. ‘ ‘ Na, na ; keep them and use them 
yersell, sir. There’s nane at hame that wad own puir Tam. 
The leddy, your mither, and you hae been mair to me than 
a’ beside that’s above gi’ound, and what wad ye do wi’out 
the siller?” 

“Oh, Tam! I owe all and everything to you. And 
now ” 

Tam looked up, as Arthur’s utterance was choked, and a 
great tear fell on his face. “ Wha wad hae said,” mur- 
mured he, “that a son of Burnside wad be greetin’ for 
Partan Jeannie’s son?” 

“ For my best friend ! What have you not saved me 
from? and I can do nothing!” 

“ Nay, sir. Say but thae words again." 

“Oh, for a clergyman! Or if I had a Bible to read you 
the promises.” 

“You shall have one,” said the captain, who had re- 
turned to his side. The surgeon muttered that the lad 
seemed as good as a parson ; but Arthur heard him not, 
and was saying what prayers came to his mind in this 
stress, when, even as the captain returned, the last strug- 
gle came on. Once more Tam looked up, saying, “Ye’ll 
be good to puir Fareek;” and with a word more, “Oh, 
Christ: will he save such as I?” all was over. 

“Come away, you can do nothing more,” said thedoctoi-. 
“You want looking to yourself.” 

For Arthur tottered as he tried to rise, and needed the 
captain’s kind hand as he gained his feet. “Sir,” he said, 
as the tears gushed to his eyes, “ he does deserve all honor 
—my only friend and deliverer.” 

“ I see,” said Captain Beresford, much moved; “ what- 
ever he has been, he died a Christian. He shall have 
Christian burial. And this fellow?” pointing to poor Fa- 
reek, whose grief was taking vent in moans and sobs. 

“ Christian— Abyssinian, but dumb,’^ Arthur explained; 
and having his promise that all respect should be paid to 

E oor Tam’s corpse, he let the doctor lead him away, for he 
ad now time to feel how sun- scorched and exhausted he 
was, with giddy, aching head, and legs cramped and stiff, 
arms strained and shoulders painful after his three days 


9S 


A MODERN TELEMACHUSi. 


and nights of the boat. His thirst, too, seemed unquench- 
able, in spite of drinks almost unconsciously taken, and . 
though hungry, he had little will to eat. 

The surgeon made him take a warm bath, and then fed 
him with soup, after which, on a promise of being called in 
due time, he consented to deposit himself in a hammock, 
and presently fell asleep. 

When he awoke hti found that clothes had been provided 
for him— naval uniforms; but that could not be helped, 
and the comfort was great. He was refreshed, but still 
very stiff. However, he dressed and was just ready, when 
the surgeon came to see whether he were in condition to be 
summoned, for it was near sundown, and all hands were 
piped up to attend j)oor Tam’s funeral rites. His generous 
and faithful deed had eclipsed the memory that he was a 
renegade, and, indeed, it had been in such ignorance that 
he had had little to deny. 

All the sailors stood af respectfully as if he had been one 
of themselves while the captain read a portion of the burial 
office. Such honors would never have been his in his na- 
tive land, where at that time even Episcopalians them- 
selves could not have ventured on any out door rites; and 
Arthur was thus doubly struck and impressed, when, as 
the corpse, sewn in sail-cloth and heavily weighted, was 
launched into the blue waves, he heard the words commit- 
ting the body to the deep till the sea should give up her 
dead, he longed to be able to translate them to poor Fareek. 
Avho was weeping and howling so inconsolably as to attest 
how good a master he had lost. 

Perhaps Tam’s newly-found or recovered Christianity 
might have been put to hard shocks as to the virtues lie 
had learned . among the Moslems. At any rate, Arthur 
often had reason to declare in after-life that the poor rene 
gade might have put many a better-trained Christian to 
shame. 


CHAPTER X. 

ON BOARD THE CALYPSO. 

“ From whence this youth? 

His country, name, and birth declared?’’ 

Scoti. 

“You had forgot l^en this legacy, Mr. Hope,’’ said Cap- 
tain Beresford, taking Arthur into his cabin, “and, judg- 
ing by its weight, it is hardly to be neglected. I put it 
into my locker for security.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Arthur. “The question is, 
whether I ought to take it? I wished for your advice.” 

“1 heard what passed,” said the captain. “I should 


.4 MODERN TELEMACHUS, 


99 


call your right as complete as if you had a will made by 
half a dozen lawyers. When we get into port, a few 
pounds to the ship's company to drink your health, and all 
will be right. Will you count it?” 

The folds were undone, and little piles made of the gold, 
but neither the captain nor Arthur were much the wiser. 
The purser might have computed it, but Captain Beresford 
did not propose this, thinking, perhaps, that it was safer 
that no report of a treasure should get abroad in the ship. 

He made a good many, inquiries, which he had deferi ed 
till Arthur should be in a fitter condition for answering, 
first about the capture and wreck, and what the young 
man had been able to gather about the Cabeleyzes. Then, 
as the replies showed that he had a gentleman before him, 
Captain Beresford added that he could not help asking, 
” Que diable allait il faire dans cette galere?” 

“Sir,” said Arthur, “ I do not know whether you will 
think it your duty to make me a prisoner, but I had better 
tell 3 ^ou the whole truth.” 

‘ ‘ Oho !’ ’ said the captain ; ‘ ‘ but you are too young ! You 
could nev^er have been out with — with— we’ll call him the 
chevalier.” 

“I ran away from school,” replied Arthur, coloring. 
” I was a mere boy, and I never was attainted,” explained 
Arthur, blushing. ” I have been with my Lord Nithsdale, 
and my mother thought I could safely come home, and 
that if I came from Sweden my brother could not think I 
compromised him.” 

” Your brother?” 

“Lord Burnside. He is at court, in favor, they say, 
with King George. He is my half-brother; my mother is 
a Maxwell.” 

“ There is a Hope in garrison at Port Mahon— a captain,” 
said the captain. “Perhaps he will advise you what to do 
if you are sick of Jacobite intrigue and mystery, and 
ready to serve King George.” 

Arthur’s face lighted up. “Will it be James Hope of 
Ry eland, or Dickie Hope of the Lynn, or ” 

Captain Beresford held up his hands. 

“Time must show that, my young friend,” he said, 
smiling. “ And now I think the officers expect you to join 
their mess in the gunroom.” 

There Arthur found the little chevalier strutting about 
in an adaptation of the smallest midshipman’s uniform, 
and the center of an admiring party, who were equally 
diverted by his consequential airs and by his accounts of 
his sports among the Moors. Happy fellow, he could 
adapt himself to any society, and was ready to be the pet 
and plavthi?ig of the ship’s company, believing himself. 


100 


A MODERN TELEMACnm. 


when he thought of anything beyond the present, to be 
full on the road to his friends again. 

Fareek was a much more difiScult charge, for Arthur 
had hardly a word that he could understand. He found 
the poor fellow coiled up in a corner, just where he had 
seen his former master’s remains disappear, still moaning 
and weeping bitterly. As xlrthur called to him he looked 
up for a moment, then crawled forward, striking his fore- 
head at intervals against the deck. He was about to kiss 
the feet of his former fellow-slave, the glittering ^old, blue, 
and white of whose borrowed dress no doubt impressed 
him. Arthur hastily started back, to the amazement of 
the spectators, and called out a negative— one of the words 
sure to be first learned. He tried to take Fareek’s hand 
and raise him from his abject attitude; but the poor fel- 
low continued kneeling, and not only were no words avail- 
able to tell him that he was free, but it was extremely 
doubtful whether freedom was any boon to him. One 
thing, however, he did evidently understand— he pointed 
to the St. George’s pennant with the red cross, made the 
sign, looked an interrogation, and on Arthur’s reply: 
“ Christians,” and reiteration of the word ‘ ‘ Salaam, ” peace, 
he folded his arms and looked reassured. 

“Ay, ay, my hearty,” said the big boatswain, “ye’ve 
got under the old flag, and we’ll soon make you seethe 
difference. Cut out your poor tongue, have they, the 
rascals, and made a dummy of you? I wish my cat was 
about their ears ! Come along with you, and you shall find 
what British grog is made of.’ ’ 

And a remarkable friendship arose between the two, the 
boatswain patronizing Fareek on every occasion, and roar- 
ing at him as if he were deaf as well as dumb, and Fareek 
appearing quite confident under his protection, and estab- 
lishing a system of signs, which were fortunately a univer- 
sal language. The Abyssinian evidently viewed himself as 
young Hope’s servant or slave, probably thinking himself 
part of his late master’s bequest, and there was no com- 
mon language between them m which to explain the differ 
ence or ascertain the poor fellow’s wishes. He was a 
slightly-made, dexterous man, probably about five-aiicl- 
twenty years of age, and he caught up very quickly, by 
imitation, the care he could take of Arthur's clothes" and 
the habit of waiting on him at meals. 

Meantime the Calypso held her course to the southeast, 
till the chart declared the coast to be that of Djigheli Bay, 
and Arthur recognized the headlands whither the unfort- 
unate tartan had drifted to her destruction. Anchoring 
outside the bay, Captain Beresford sent the first lieutenant, 
Bullock, in the long boat, with Arthur and a well 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


101 


armed force, with instructions to offer no violence, hut to 
reconnoiter ; and if they found Mademoiselle de Bourke, or 
any others of the party, to do their best for their release 
by promises of ransom or representations of the conse 
quences of detaining them. Arthur was prepared to offer 
nis own piasters at once in case of need of immediate pay- 
ment. He was by this time tolerably versed in the veV 
nacular of the Mediterranean, and a cook’s boy, shipped 
at Gibraltar, was also supposed to be capable of interpret- 
ing. 

The beautiful bay, almost realizing the description of 
Eneas’ landing-place, lay before them, the stifl, green 
waters within reflecting the fantastic rocks and the wreaths 
of verdure which crowned them, while the white mount- 
ain-tops rose like clouds in the far distance against the 
azure sky. Arthur could only, however, think of all this 
fair scene as a cruel prison, and those sharp rocks as the 
jaws of a trap, when he saw the ribs of the Tartan still 
jammed into the rock where she had struck, and where he 
nad saved the two children as they were washed up the 
hatchway. He saw the rock where the other three had 
clung, and where he had little girl. He remem- 

bered the crowd of howling, yelling savages, leaping and 
gesticulating on the beach, and his heart trembled as he 
wondered how it had ended. 

Where were the Cabeleyzes who had thus greeted them? 
The boy seemed perfectly lonely. Not a sound was to be 
heard but the regular dip of the oars, the cry of a startled 
bird, and the splash of a flock of seals, which had been 
sunning themselves on the shore, and which floundered 
into the sea like Proteus’ flock of yore before Ulysses. 
Would that Proteus himself had still been there to be 
captured and interrogated ! For the place was so entirely 
deserted that, saving for the remains of the wreck, he 
must have believed himself mistaken in the locality, and 
the lieutenant began to question him whether it had been 
da when he came ashore. 



Could the natives have hidden themselves at sight of an 
armed vessel? Mr. Bullock resolved on landing, very 
cautiously, and with a sufficient guard. On the shore 
some fragments of broken boxes and packing-cases ap- 
peared; and a sailor pointed out the European lettering 
painted on one— . . . sse de B . . . It plainly was part of 
the address of the Comtesse de Bourke. This encouraged 
the part5^ in their search. They ascended the path whicT. 
poor Hebert and Lanty Callaghan had so often painfulls' 
climbed, and found themselves before the square of reed 
hovels, also deserted, but Avith black marks where fires 
had been lighted, and Avith traces of recent habitation. 


A MODFRX TELFATAi^HUS. 


102 

Arthur picked up a rag of the Bourke livery, and an- 
other of a brocade which he had seen the poor countess 
wearing. Was this all the relic that he should ever be able 
to take to her husband ? 

He peered about anxiously in hopes of discovering further 
tokens, and Mr. Bullock was becoming impatient of his 
lingering, when suddenly his eyes was struck by a score 
on the bark of a chestnut-tree like a ci’oss, cut with a 
feeble hand. Beneath, close to the trunk, was a stone, be- 
yond the corner of which appeared a bit of paper. lie 
pounced upon it. It was the title-page of Estelle’s pre- 
cious Telemaque, and on the back was written in French. 

If any good Christian ever finds this, I pray him to carry 
it to Monsieur the French Consul at Algiers. We are five 
poor prisoners, the Abbe de St. Eudoce, Estelle, daughter 
of the Comte de Bourke, and our servants, Jacq^ues Hebert, 
Laurent Callaghan, Yictorine Benouf. The Cabeleyzes are 
taking us away to their mountains. We are in slavery, in 
hunger, filth, and deprivation of all things. We pray "day 
and night that the good God Avill send some one to rescue us, 
for we are in great misery, and they persecute us to make 
us deny our faith. Oh, Avhoever "you may be, come and 
deliver us Avhile Ave are yet alive. ’ ' 

Arthur was almost choked with tears as he translated 
this piteous letter to the lieutenant, and recollected the 
engaging, enthusiastic little maiden, as he had seen her on 
the Rhone, but now brought to such a state. He implored 
Mr. Bullock to pursue the track up the mountain, and Avas 
gricA^ed at this being treated as absurdly impossible, but 
then recollecting himself, “You could not, sir, but T 
might follow her and make them understand that she 
must be saA^ed “ 

“And giA^e them another captive,” said Bullock; “I 
thought you had had enough of that. You Avill do more 
good to this flame of yours ” 

“No flame, sir. She is a mere child, little older than 
her brother. But she must not remain among these laAA less 
savages.” 

“No! But Ave don’t throw the helve after the hatchet, 
my lad ! All you can do is to take this epistle to the French 
consul, Avho might find it hard to understand Avithout y^our 
explanations. At any rate, my orders are to bring you 
safe on board again.” 

Arthur had no choice but to submit, and Captain Beres - 
ford, Avho had a wife and children at home, was greatlv 1 
touched by" the sight of the childish writing of the poor 3 
little motherless girl; above all ^v\\en Arthur explained! 
that the high-sounding title of Abbe de 8t. Eudoce only l 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 103 

meant one who was more likely to be a charge than a help 
to her. 

France was for the nonce allied with England, and the 
dread of passing to Sweden through British seas had ap- 
parently been quite futile, since, if Captain Beresford rec- 
ollected the Irish blood of the count, it was only as an 
additional cause for taking interest in him. Toward the 
Moorish pirates the interest of the t\Vo nations united them. 
It was intolerable to think of the condition of the captives; 
and the captain, anxious to lose no time, rejoiced that his 
orders were such as to justify him in sailing at once for 
Algiers to take effectual measures with the consul before 
letting the family know the situation of the poor Demoi- 
selle de Bourke. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE PIRATE CITY. 

“ With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley’s latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 

Right to the carven cedarn doors. 

Flung inward over spangled floors, 

Broad- based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 

After the fashion of the time, 

And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid.” 

Tennyson. 

Civilized and innocuous existence has, no doubt, been a 
blessing to Algiers as well as to the entire Mediterranean, 
but it has not improved the picturesqueness of its aspect 
any more than the wild and splendid “ tiger, tiger burning 
bright,” would be more ornamental with his claws pared, 
the fiery gleam of his yellow eyes quenched, and his spirit 
tamed, so as to render him only an exaggerated domestic 
cat. The steamer, whether of peace or war, is a melan- 
choly substitute for the splendid though sinister galley, 
with her ranks of oars and towers of canvas, or for the 
dainty, la teen-sailed vessels, skimming the waters like fly- 
ing-fish, and the Frank garb ill replaces the graceful Arab 
dress. The Paris-like block of houses ill replaces theTgrace- 
ful Moorish architecture, undisturbed when the Calypso 
sailed into the harbor, and the amphitheater- like city rose 
before her, in successive terraces of dazzling white, inter- 
spersed with palms and other trees here and there, with 
mosques and minarets rising above them, and with a crov n 
of strong fortifications. The harbor itself was protected 
by a strongly-fortified mole, and some parley passed with 
the governor of the strong and griin-looking castle adja- 


104 


A MODEJi.Y TELEiVACBUS. 


cent— a huge round tower erected by the Spaniards, and 
showing thi’ee ranks of brazen teeth in the shape of guns. 

Finally, the Algerines, having been recently brought to 
their bearings, as Captain Beresford said, entrance was 
permitted, and the Calypso enjoyed the shelter of the 
mole; while he, in full-dress uniform, took boat and went 
ashore, and with him the two escaped prisoners. Fareek 
remained on board till the English consul could be con- 
sulted on his fate. 

England and France were on curious terms with 
Algiers. The French had bombarded the city in 1686, and 
had obtained a treaty by which a consul constantly resided 
in the city, and the persons and property of French subjects 
were secured from piracy, or if captured were always re- 
leased. The English had made use of the possession of 
Gibraltar and Minorca to enforce a like treaty. There 
was a little colony of European merchants— English, 
French, and Dutch- -in the lower town, near the harbor, 
above which the Arab town rose, as it still rises, in a steep 
stair. Ships of all these nations traded at the port, and 
quite recently the English consul, Thomas Thompson by 
name, had vindicated the honor of his flag by citing before 
the dey a man who had insulted him on the narrow cause- 
way of the mole. The Moor was sentenced to receive 
twenty-two hundred strokes of bastinado on the feet— one 
thousand the first day, twelve hundred on the second; and 
he died in consequence, so that Englishmen safely walked 
the nari’ow streets. The dey who had inflicted this pun 
ishment was, however, lately dead. Mehemed had been 
elected and installed by the chief janizaries, and it re 
mained to be proved whether he would show himself 
equally anxious to be on good terms wuth the Christian 
powers. 

Arthur’s heart had learned to beat at sight of the Brit- 
ish ensign with emotions very unlike those with which he 
had seen it wave at Sheriffmuir; but it looked strange 
above the low walls of a Moorish house, plain outside, but 
with a richly cusped and painted horseshoe arch at the en- 
trance to a lovely cloistered court, with a sparkling fount- 
ain surrounded by orange-trees with fruit of all shades 
from green to gold. Servants in white garments and scar- 
let fezzes, black, brown, or white (by courtesy), seemed to 
swarm in all directions; and one of them called a youth in 
European garb, but equally dark-faced with the rest, and 
not too good an English scholar. However, he conducted 
them through a stifl more beautiful court, lined with brill- 
iant mosaics in the spandrels of the exquisite arches sup- 
ported on slender, shining marble columns. 

Mr. Thompson’s English coat and hearty English face 


A MODERN TELEMACHVS. 


105 


looked incongruous, as at sight of the blue and-white uni- 
form he came forward with all the hospitable courtesy due 
to a post-captajn. There was shaking of hands, and doff 
ing of cocked hats, and calling for wines and pipes and 
coffee, in the Alhambra-like hall, where a table covered 
with papers tied with red tape, in front of a homely leath- 
ern chair, looked more homelike than suitable. Other 
chairs there were for Frank guests, who preferred them 
to the divan and piles of cushions on which the Moors 
transacted business. 

“What can I do for you, sir?’’ he asked of the captain, 
“or for this little master,” he added, looking at Oiysse, 
who was standing by Arthur. “ He is serving the king 
early. ’ ' 

“I don’t belong to your King George,” broke out the 
young gentleman. ‘ ‘ He is an usurpateur. I have only this 
uniform on till I can get my proper clothes. I am the son 
of the Comte de Bourke, embassador to Spain and Sweden. 

I serve no one but King Louis !’ ’ 

“That is plain to be seen,” smd Mr. Thompson. “The 
Gallic cock crows early. But is he indeed the son of Count 
Bourke about whom the French consul has been in such 
trouble?” 

“ Even so, sir,” replied the captain. “ I am come to ask 
you to present him, with this gentleman, Mr. Hope, to 
your French colleague. Mr. Hope, to whom the child’s life 
and liberty are alike o wing, has information to give which 
may lead to the rescue of the boy’s sister and uncle, with 
their servants.” 

Mr. Thompson had heard of a Moorish galley coming in 
with an account of having lost a Genoese prize, with ladies 
on board, in the late storm. He was sure that the tidings 
Mr. Hope brought would be most welcome, but he knew 
that the French consul was gone up with a distinguished 
visitor, Monsieur Dessault, for an audience of the dey ; and , 
in the meantime, his guests must dine with him. And 
Arthur narrated his adventures. 

The consul shook his head when he heard of Djigheli 
Bey. 

“Those fellows, the Cabeleyzes, hate the« French, and 
make little enough of the dey, though they do send home 
Moors who fall into their hands. Did you see a ruined fort 
on a promontory? That was the Bastion de France. The 
old King Louis put it up and garrisoned it, but those 
rogues contrived a surprise and made four hundred pris- 
oners, and ever since they have been neither to have nor 
to liold. Well for you, young gentleman, that you did not 
fall into their hands, but those of the country Moors— very 
decent folk-- descended, they say, from the Spanish Moors. 


106 


A MODFEN TELEMACHUS. 


A renegade got you off, did he? Yes, they will sometimes 
do that, though at an awful risk, If they are caught they 
are hung up alive on hooks to the walls. You had an es 
cape, I can tell you, and so had he, poor fellow, of being 
taken alive.” 

He knew the risk ,” said Arthur, in a low voice; ” but 
my mother had once been good to him. and he dared every 
thing forvme.” 

The consul readily estimated Arthur’s legacy as amount- 
ing to little less than £200, and was also ready to give him 
bills of exchange for it. The next question was as to 
Fareek. To return him to his own country was impossible ; 
and though tlie consul offered to buy him of Arthur, not 
only did the young Scot revolt at the idea of making traffic 
of the faithful fellow, but Mr. Thompson owned that there 
might be some risk in Algiers of his being recognized as a 
runaway ; and, though this was very slight, it was better 
not to give any cause of offense. 

Captain Beresford thought the poor man might be dis- 
posed of at Port Mahon, and Arthur kept to himself that 
Tam’s bequest was sacred to him. His next wish was for 
clothes to which he might have a better right than to the 
uniform of the senior midshipman of H.M.S. Calypso— a 
garb in which he did not like to appear before the French 
consul. ‘ Mr. Thompson consulted his Greek clerk, and a 
chest belonging to a captured merchantman, which had 
been claimed as British property, but had not found an 
owner, was opened, and proved to contain a wardrobe suf 
ficent to equip Arthur like other gentlemen of the day, in 
a dark crimson coat, with a little gold lace about it, and 
the rest of the dress white, a wide beaver hat, looped up 
with a rosette, and everything, indeed, except shoes, and 
he was obliged to retain those of the senior midshipman. ^ 
With his black hair tied back, and a suspicion of powder, 
he found himself more like the youth whom Lady Niths- 
dale had introduced in Madame de Varennes’ salon than 
he had felt for the last month ; and moreover his shyness 
and awkwardness had in great measure disappeared dur- 
ing his vicissitudes, and he had made many steps toward 
manhood. 

Ulysse had in the meantime been consigned to the kind, 
motherly, portly Mrs. Thompson, who, accustomed as she 
was to hearing of strange adventures, was aghast at what 
the child had undergone, and was enchanted with the lit- 
tle French gentleman who spoke English so well, and to 
whom his grand -seigneur airs returned by instinct in con 
tact with a European lady; but his eye instantly sought 
Arthur, nor would he be content without a seat next to his 
protector at the dinner, early as were all dinners then, and 


.*1 MODE}i.\^ TELEMACHUS. K.; 

a compound of Eastern and Western dishes, the latter very 
welcome to the travelers, and affording the consul's wife 
themes of discourse on her difliculties in compounding 
them. 

Pipes, siesta, and coffee followed, Mr. Thompson assur- 
ing them that his French colleague wonld not be ready to 
receive them till after the like repose had been undergone, 
and that he had already sent a billet to announce their 
coming. 

The French consulate was not distant. The fleiir-de-lis 
waved over a house similar to Mr. Thompson’s, but they 
were admitted with greater ceremony, when Mr. Thomp 
son at length conducted them. Servants and slaves, 
brown and black, clad in white with blue sashes, and 
white officials in blue liveries, were drawn up in the first 
court m two lines to receive them; and the chevalier, tak 
ing it all to himself, paraded in front with the utmost 
grandeur, until, at the next archway, two gentlemen, re 
splendent in gold lace, came forward with low bows. At 
sight of the little fellow there were cries of joy. Monsieur 
Dessault spread out his arms, clasped the child to his 
breast, and shed tears over him, so that the less emotional 
Englishman thought at first that they rhust be kinsmen. 
However, Arthur came in for a like embrace, as the boy’s 
preserver; and if Captain Beresford had not stepped back 
and looked uncomprehending and rigid he might have 
come in for the same. 

Seated in the veranda, Arthur told his tale and presented 
the letter, over which there were more tears; as, indeed, 
well there might be over tlie condition of the little girl and 
her simple mode of describing it. It was nearly a month 
since the corsair had arrived, and the story of the Genoese 
tartan being captured and lost, with French ladies on 
board, had leaked out. The French consul had himself 
seen and interrogated the Dutch renegade captain, had be- 
come convinced of the identity of the unfortunate pass- 
sengers, and had given up all hopes of them, so that he 
greeted the boy as one risen from the dead. 

To know that the boy’s sister and uncle were still in the 
hands of the Cabeleyzes was almost worse news than the 
death of his mother, for this wild Arab tribe had a terrible 
reputation even among the Moors and Turks. 

The only thing that could be devised after consultation 
between the two consuls, the French envoy, and the En- 
glish captain, was that an audience should be demanded of 
the dey, and Estelle’s letter presented, the next morning. 
Meanwhile Arthur and Ulysse were to remain as guests ar. 
the English consulate. The French one would have made 
them welcome, but there was no lady in his house; anti 


,1 MObEUN TELEMACHUS, 


■lO« 

Mrs. Thompson had given Arthur a hint that his little 
charge would be the better for womanly care. 

There was further consultation whether young Hope, as 
a runaway slave — who had, however, carried olf a relapsed 
renegade with him — would be safe on shore beyond the 
precincts of the consulate ; but as no one had any claim on 
him, and it might be desirable to have his evidence at 
hand, it was thought safe that he should remain, and 
Captain Beresford promised to come ashore in the morning 
to join the petitioners to the dey. 

Perhaps he was not sorry, any more than was Arthur, 
for the opportunity of beholding the wonderful city and 
palace, which were like a dream of beauty. He came 
ashore early, with two or three officers, all in full uniform ; 
and, the audience having been granted, the whole party — 
consuls. Monsieur Dessault, and their attendants— mounted 
the steep, narrow stone steps leading up the hill be- 
tween the walls of houses with fantastically carved door- 
ways or lattices; while bare legged Arabs niched them- 
selves into every coign of vantage with baskets of fruit or 
eggs, or else embroidering pillows and slippers with exqui- 
site taste. 

The beauty of the buildings was unspeakable, and they 
projected enough to make a cool shade — only a narrow 
fragment of deep-blue sky being visible above them. The 
party did not, however, ascend the whole four hundred 
and ninety-seven steps, as the abode of the dey was 
then not the citadel, but the palace of Djenina, in the 
heart of the city. Turning aside, they made their way 
thither over terraces partly in the rock, partly on the roofs 
of houses. 

Fierce-looking janizaries, splendidly equipped, guarded 
the entrance, with an air so proud and consequential as to 
remind Arthur of poor Yusuf s assurances of the manih- 
cence that might await little Ulysse as an aga of tliat corps 
Even as they admitted the infidels, they looked defiance at 
them from under the manifold snowy folds of their mighty 
turbans. 

If the beauty of the counsuls’ houses had struck and 
startled Arthur, far more did the region into which he was 
now admitted seem like a dream of lair^^-land as he passed 
through ranks of orange-trees round sparkling fountains— 
worthy of Versailles itself— courts surrounded with clols 
ters, sparkling with priceless mosaics, in those brilliant 
colors whicli Eastern taste alone can combine so as to avoid 
gaudiness, arches and columns of ineffable grace and rich 
ness, halls with domes emulating the sky, or else ceiled 
with white marble lacework, whose tracery seemed deli 
cate and varied as the richest Venice point! But the won 


MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


109 


derful beauty seemed to him to have in it something ter- 
rible and weird, like that fairy land of his native country, 
whose glory and charm are overshadowed by the knowl 
edge of the teinds to be paid to hell. It was an unnatural, 
incomprehensible world ; and from longing to admire and 
examine he only wished to be out of it, felt it a relief to fix 
his eyes upon the uniforms of the captain and the con- 
suls, and did not wonder that Ulysse, instead of proudly 
heading the procession, shrank up to him and clasped his 
hand as liis protector. 

The human figures were as strange as the architecture ; 
the glittering of janizaries in the outer court, which seemed 
a sort of guardroom, the lines of those on duty in the next, 
and in the third court the black slaves in white garments, 
enhancing the blackness of their limbs, each with a formid- 
able curved cimeter. At the golden cusped archway be- 
yond, all had to remove their shoes as though entering a 
mosque. The consuls bade the new-comers submit to this, 
adding that it was only since the recent victory that it had 
not been needful to lay aside the sword on entering the 
dey’s august presence. The cliamber seemed to the eyes 
of the strangers one web of magic splendor— gold -crusted 
lacework above, arches on one side open to a beauteous 
garden, and opposite semi circles of richly-robed janizary 
officers, all culminating in a dazzling throne, where sat a 
white-turbaned figure, before whom the visitors all had to 
bow lower than European independence could well brook. 

The dey’s features were not very distinctly seen at the 
distance where etiquette required them to stand ; but Ar- 
thur thought him hardly worthy to be master of such fine- 
looking beings as Abou Ben Zegri and many others of the 
Moors, being in fact a little sturdy Turk, with Tartar feat- 
ures, not nearly so graceful as the Moors and Arabs, nor so 
handsome and imposing as the janizaries of Circassian 
blood. 

Turkish was the court language, and even if he under- 
stood any other, an interpreter was a necessary part of the 
etiquette. Monsieur Dessault instructed the interpreter, 
who understood with a readiness which betrayed that he 
w^as one of the many renegades in the Algerine service. 

The dey was too dignified to betray much emotion; but 
he spoke a few words, and these were understood to pro- 
fess his willingness to assist in the matter. A rbffily clad 
official, who was, Mr. Thompson whispered, a secretary of 
state, came to attend the party in a smaller but equally 
beautiful room, where pipes and coffee were served, and a 
consultation took place with the two consuls, which was, 
of course, incomprehensible to the anxious listeners. Mon- 
sieur Dessault’s interest was deeply concerned in the mat- 


no vi MODERN TELEMACHUS. 

ter, since hi swis a connection of the Varennes family, 4u 
which poor Madame de Boiirke belonged. 

Commands from the dey, it was presently explained, 
would be utterly disregarded by these wild mountaineers— 
nay, would probably lead to the murder of the captives in 
defiance. But it was known that if these wild beings paid 
deference to any one, it was to the Grand Marabout at 
Bugia ; and the secretary promised to send a letter in the 
dey’s name, which, with a considerable present, might in- 
duce him to undertake the negotiation. Therewith the 
audience terminated, after Monsieur Dessault had laid a 
splendid diamond snuff-box at the feet of the secretary. 

The consuls were somewhat disgusted at the notion of 
having recourse to the Marabouts, whom the French con- 
sul called vilams charlatan, and the English one filthy 
scoundrels and impostors. Like the Indian fakirs, opine‘d 
Captain Beresford ; like the begging friars, said Monsieur 
Dessault, and to this the consuls assented. Just, however, 
as the Dominicans, besides the low class of barefooted 
friars, had a learned and cultivated set of brethren in high 
repute at the universities, and a general at Eome, so it ap- 
peared that the Marabouts, besides their wild crew of mas- 
terful beggars, living at free quarters, partly through pre- 
tended sanctity, partly through the awe inspired by 
cabalistic arts, had a higher class who dwelt in cities, and 
were highly esteemed, for the sake of either ten years’ ab- 
stinence from food or the attainment of fifty sciences, by 
one or other of which means an angelic nature was held to 
be attained. 

Fifty sciences! This greatly astonished the strangers, 
but they were told by the residents that all the knowledge 
of the highly cultivated Arabs of Bagdad and the Moors of 
Spain had been handed on to the select few of their African 
descendants, and that really beautiful poetry was still pro 
duced by the Marabouts. Certainly no one present could 
doubt of the architectural skill and taste of the Algerines, 
and Mr. Thompson declared that not a tithe of the wonders 
of their mechanical art had been seen, describing the won- 
derful silver tree of Tlemcen, covered with birds, who, by 
the action of wind, were made to produce the songs of 
each different species which they represented, till a falcon 
on the topmost branch uttered a harsh cry, and all became 
silent. 

General education had, however, fallen to a low ebb 
among the population, and the wisdom of the ancients was 
chiefly concentrated among the higher class of Marabouts, 
whose headmiarters were at Bugia, and their present 
chief, Hadji Eseb Ben Hassan, had the reputation of u 
saint, which the consuls believed to be well founded. 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS, 


in 


The Cabeleyzes, though most irregular Moslems, were 
extremely superstitious as regarded the supernatural arts 
supposed to be possessed by the Marabouts, and if these 
could be induced to take up the cause of the prisoners, 
there would be at least some chance of their success. 

And not long after the party had arrived at the French 
consulate, where they were to dine, a messenger arrived 
with a parcel rolled up in silk, embroidered with gold, and 
containing a strip of paper beautifully emblazoned, and in 
Turkish characters. The consul read it, and found it to 
be a really strong recommendation to the Marabout to do 
his utmost for the servants of the dey’s brother, the 
King of France, now in the hands of the children of Shai- 
tan. 

“Well purchased,” said Monsieur Dessault; “though 
that snuff-box came from the hands of the Elector of Ba- 
varia!” 

As soon as the meal was over, the French consul, instead 
of taking his siesta as usual, began to take measures for 
chartering a French tartan to go to Bugia immediately. 
He found there was great interest excited, not only among 
the Christian merchants, but among Turks, Moors, and 
.Tews, so horrible was the idea of captivity among the 
Cabeleyzes. The dey set the example of sending down five 
purses of sequins toward the young lady’s ransom, and 
many more contributions came in unasked. It was true 
that the bearers expected no small consideration in return, 
but this was willingly given, and the feeling manifested 
was a perfect astonishment to all the friends at the con- 
sulate. 

The French national intepreter, Ibrahim Aga, was 
charged with the negotiations with the Marabout. Arthur 
^ entreated to go with him, and with some hesitation this 
was agreed to, since the sight of an old friend might 
be needed to reassure any survivors of the poor cap- 
tives— for it was hardly thought possible that all could 
still survive the hardships of the mountains in the depth 
of winter, even if they were spared by the ferocity of their 
captors. 

Ulysse, the little son and heir, was not to be exposed to 
the perils of the seas till his sister’s fate was decided, and 
accordingly be Avas to remain under the care of Mrs. Thomp- 
son ; while Captain Beresford meant to cruise about in the 
neighborhood, having a great desire to know the result of 
the enterprise, and hoping also that if Mademoiselle de 
Bourke still lived he might be permitted to restore her to 
her relations. Letters, clothes, and comforts were pro- 
vided, and placed under the charge of the interpreter anil 
uf Arthur, together with a considerable gratuity for the 


112 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


Marabout, and authority for any ransom that Cabeleyze 
rapacity might require— still, however, with great doubt 
whether all might not be too late. 


CHAPTER XII. 

ON THE MOUNTAINS. 

“We canuot miss him. He doth make our fire, 

Fetch in our wood, and serve in ofiBces 

That profit us.” Tempest, 

Bugia, though midway on the “European lake,” is al- 
most unknown to modern travelers, though it has become 
a French possession. 

It looked extremely beautiful when the French tartan 
entered it, rising from the sea like a magnificent amphi- 
theater, at the foot of the mountains that circled round it, 
and guarded by stern battlemented castles, while the 
arches of one of the great old Roman acqueducts made a 
noble chord to the arch described bj- the lower part of the 
town. 

The harbor, a finer one naturally than that of Algiers, 
contained numerous tartans and other vessels, for, as Ibra- 
him Aga, who could talk French very well, informed 
Arthur, the inhabitants were good workers in iron, and 
drove a trade in plowshares and other implements, besides 
wax and oil. But it was no resort of Franks, and he 
insisted that Arthur should only come on shore in a Moor- 
ish dress, which had been provided at Algiers. Thanks to 
young Hope’s naturally dark complexion and the exposure 
of the last month, he might very well pass for a MoorV and 
he had learned to wear the white caftan, wide trousers, 
broad sash, and scarlet fez circled with muslin so naturally 
that he was not likely to be noticed as a European. 

The city, in spite of its external beauty, proved to be 
ruinous within, and in the midst of the Moorish houses 
and courts still were visible remnants of the old Roman 
town that had in past ages flourished there. Like Algiers, 
it had narrow, climbing streets, excluding sunshine, and 
through these the guide Ibrahim had secured led the way ; 
while in single file came the interpreter, Arthur, two black 
slaves bearing presents for the Marabout, and four men 
besides as escort. Once or twice there was a vista down a 
broader space, with an awning over it, where selling and 
buying were going on, always of some single species of 
merchandise. 

Thus they arrived at one of those Moorish houses to 
whose beauty Arthur was becoming accustomed. It had, 
however, a less luxurious and graver aspect than the 
palaces of Algiers, and the green color sacred to the 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


113 


prophet prevailed in the inlaid work, which Ibrahim Aga 
told him consisted chiefly of maxims from the Koran. 

No soldiers were on guard, but there were a good many 
young men wholly clad in white — neophytes endeavoring 
to study the fifty sciences, mostly sitting on the ground, 
writing copies, either of the sacred books or of the treatises 
on science and medicine which had descended from time 
almost immemorial; all rehearsed aloud what they learned 
or wrote, so as to produce a strange hum. A gi*ave official, 
similarly clad, but with a green sash, came to meet them, 
and told them that the chief Marabout was sick ; but on 
hearing from the interpreter that they were bearers of a 
letter from the dey, he went back with the intelligence, 
and presently returned salaaming very low, to introduce 
them to another of the large halls with lacework ceilings, 
where it was explained that the grand Marabout was, who 
was suffering from ague. The fit was passing off, and he 
would be able to attend to his honored guests as soon as 
they had partaken of the coffee and the pipes which were 
presented to them. 

After a delay, very trying to Arthur’s anxiety, though 
beguiled by such coffee and tobacco as he was never likely 
to encounter again, Hadji Eseb Ben Hassan, a venerable- 
looking man, appeared, with a fine white beard, and keen 
eyes, slenderly formed, and with an air of very consider- 
able ability— much more so than the dey, in all his glitter- 
ing splendor of gold, jewels, and embroidery, whereas this 
old man wore the pure white woolen garments of the 
Moor, with the green sash, and an emerald to fasten the 
folds of his white turban. 

Ibrahim Aga prostrated himself as if before the dey, and 
laid before the Marabout, as a first gift, a gold watch ; 
then, after a blessing had been given in return, he produced 
with great ceremony the dey’s letter, to which every one 
in the apartment did obeisance by touching the floor with 
their foreheads, and the Grand Marabout further rubbed 
it on his brow before proceeding to read it, which he chose 
to do for himself, chanting it out in a low, humming voice, 
it was only a recommendation, and the other letter was 
from the French consul containing all ptirticulars. The 
Marabout seemed much startled, and interrogated the 
interpreter. Arthur could follow them in some degree, 
and presently the keen eye of the old man seemed to detect 
his interest, for there was a pointing to him, an explana- 
tion that he had been there, and presently Hadji Eseb 
addressed a question to him in the vernacular Arabic. He 
understood and answered, but the imperfect language or 
his looks betrayed him, for Hadji Eseb demanded, “ Thou 
art Frank, my son?” 


114 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS, 


Ibrahim Aga. mortally afraid of the consequences of 
having brought a disguised Giaour into these sacred pre- 
cincts, began what Arthur perceived to be a. lying assur- 
ance of his having embraced Islam; and he was on the 
point of breaking in upon the speech, when the Marabout 
observed his gesture, and said, gravely, “My son, false- 
hood is not needed to shield a brave Christian ; a faithful 
worshipper of Issa Ben Mariam receives honor if he does 
justice and works righteousness according to his own 
creed, even though he be blind to the true faith. It is true, 
good youth, that thou art not — as this man would have me 
believe— one of the crew from Algiers, but art come to 
strive for the release of thy sister?’’ 

Arthur gave the history as best he could, for his month’s 
practice had made him able to speak the vernacular so as to 
be fairly comprehensible, and the Marabout, who was evi- 
dently a man of very high abilities, often met him half-way, 
and suggested the word at which he stumbled. He was 
greatly touched by the account, even in the imperfect 
manner in which tne youth could give it ; and there was no 
doubt that he was a man of enlarged mind and beneficence, 
who had not only mastered the fifty sciences, hut had seen 
something of the world. He had not only made his pil- 
grimage to Mecca more than once, but had been at Con- 
stantinople, and likewise at Tunis and Tripoli ; thus, with 
powers both acute and awke, he understood more than his 
countrymen of European powers and their relation to qne 
another. As a civilized and cultivated man he was hor- 
rified at the notion of the tenderly-nurtured child being in 
the clutches of savages like the Cabeleyzes ; but the first 
difficulty was to find out where she was; for, as he said, 
pointing toward the mountains, they were a wide space, 
and it would be like hunting a partridge on the hills. 

Looking at his chief councillor, Azim Reverdi, he de 
manded whether some of the wanderers of their order, 
whom he named, could not be sent through the mountains 
to discover where any such prisoners might be ; but after 
going into the court in quest of these persons, Azim re- 
turned with tidings that a Turkish soldier had returned on 
the previous day to the town, and had mentioned that on 
Mount Couco, Sheik Abderrahman was almost at war with 
his subordinates, Eyoub and Ben Yakoub, about some ship- 
wrecked Frank captives, if they had not already settled 
the matter by murdering them all, and, as was well 
known, this ignoi’ant, lawle&*s tribe could not be persuaded 
that nothing was more abhorrent to the prophet than 
human sacrifices. 

Azim had already sent two disciples to summon the Turk 
to the presence of the Grand Marabout, and in due time he 


A MODERN TELEMaCHUS. lir> 

vppoared a rougli, heavy, truculent fellow enough, bui 
niaking awkward salaams as one in great awe of the pres- 
ence in which he stood; unwilling awe, perhaps — full of 
^perstitious fear tempered by pride — for the haughty 
Turks revolted against homage to one of the subject race 
of Moors. 

His language was only now and then comprehensible to 
Arthur, but Ibrahim kept up a running translation into 
French for his benefit. 

There were captives— infidels— saved from the wreck, he 
knew not how many— but he was sure of one— a little 
maid with hair like the unwound cocoon, so that they called 
her the Daughter of the Silkworm. It was about her that 
the chief struggle was. She had fallen to the lot of Ben 
Yakoub, who had been chestnut- gathering by the sea at 
the time of the wreck; but when t he arrived at Mount 
Couco the Sheik Abderrahman had claimed her and hers 
as the head of the tribe, and had carried her off to his own 
adowara in the valley of Ein Gebel. 

The Turk, Murad, had been induced by Yakoub to join 
him and sixteen more armed men whom he had got 
together to demand her. For it was he who had rescued 
her from the waves, carried her up the mountains, fed her 
all this time, and he would not have her snatched awav 
from him, though for his part Murad thought it would 
have been well to be <iuit of them, for not only were they 
Giaours, but he verily believed them to be of the race of 
Jinns. The little fair haired maid had papers with strange 
signs on them. She wrote— actually wrote— a thing that 
he believed no Sultana Yelide even had ever been known 
to do at Stamboul. Moreover, she twisted strings about 
on her hands in a manner that was fearful to look 
at. It was said to be only to amuse the children, but for 
his part he believed it was for some evil spell. What was 
certain was that the other, a woman full grown, could, 
whenever any one offended her, raise a Jinn in a cloud of 
smoke, which caused such a sneezing that she was lost 
sight of. 

And yet these creatures had so bewitched their captors 
that there were like to be hard blows before they were 
disposed of, unless his advice were taken to make an end 
of them altogether. Indeed, two of the men, the mad 
Santon and the chief slave, had been taken behind a bush 
to be sacrificed, when the Daughter of the Silkworm came 
between with her incantations, and fear came upon Sheik 
Yakoub. Murad evidently thought it highly advisable 
that the chief Marabout should interfere to put a stop to 
these doings, and counteract the mysterious influence ex- 
ercised by these strange beings. 


ll<i A MODERN TELEMAVHUii. 

High time, truly, Arthur and Ibrahim Aga likewise felt 
it, to go to the rescue, since terror and jealousy might, it 
appeared, at any time impel ces harhares feroces, as Ibra 
him called them, to slaughter their prisoners. To their 
great joy, the Marabout proved to be of the same opinion, 
in spite of his sickness, which, being an intermitting ague, 
would leave him free for a couple of days, and might be 
driven off by the mountain air. He promised to set forth 
early the next day, and kept the young man and the in- 
terpreter as his guests for the night, Ibrahim going first 
on board to fetch the parcel of clothes and provisions 
which Monsieur Dessault had sent for the abbe and Made- 
moiselle de Bourke, and for an installment of the ransom, 
which the Hadji Eseb assured him might safely be carried 
under his own sacred protection. 

Arthur did not see much of his host, who seemed to be 
very busy consulting with his second in command on the 
preparations, for probably the expedition was a delicate 
undertaking, even for him, and his companions had to be 
carefully chosen. 

Ibrahim had advised Arthur to stay quietly where he 
was, and not to venture into the city, and he spent his 
time as best he might by the help of a narghile, which 
w'as hospitably presented to him, though the strictness 
of Marabout life forbade the use alike of tobacco and 
coffee. 

Before dawn the courts of the house were astir. Mules, 
handsomely trapped, were provided to carry the principal 
persons of the party wherever it might be possible, and 
there were some spare ones, ridden at first by inferiors, but 
intended for the captives, should they be recovered. 

It was very cold, being the last week in November, and 
all were wrapped in heavy woolen haiks over their whi. e 
garments, except one wild-looking fellow, whose legs and 
arms were bare, and who only seemed to possess one gar 
merit of coarse, dark sackcloth. He skipped and ran by 
the side of the mules, chanting and muttering, and Ibrahim 
observed in French that he was one of the Sunakites, or 
fanatic Marabouts, and advised Arthur to beware of him; 
but, though dangerous in himself, his presence Avould be a 
sufficient protection from all other thieves or vagabonds. 
Indeed, Arthur saw the fellow glaring unpleasantly at him. 
when the sun summoned all the rest to their morning devo- 
tions. He was glad that he had made the fact of his Chris- 
tianity known, for he could no more act Moslem than he 
one, and Hadji Eseb kept the Sunakite in check by a stern 
glance, so that no harm ensued. 

Afterward Arthur was bidden to ride near the chief, who 
talked a good deal, asking intelligent questions. Gibralta?- 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


in 


had impressed him greatly, and it also appeared that in 
one of his pilgrimages the merchant vessel he was in had 
been rescued from some Albanian pirates by an English 
ship, which held the Turks as allies, and thus saved them 
from undergoing vengeance for the sufferings of the 
Greeks. Thus the good old man felt that he owed a debt 
of gratitude which Allah required him to pay, even to th© 
infidel. 

Up steep roads the mules climbed. The first night the 
halt was at a Cabyle village, where hospitality was eagerly 
offered to persons of such high reputation for sanctity as 
the Marabouts; but afterward habitations grew more 
scanty as the ground rose higher, and there was no choice 
but to encamp in the tents brought by the attendants, and 
which seemed to Arthur a good exchange for the dirty 
Cabyle huts. 

Altogether the journey took six days. The mules climbed 
along wild paths on the verge of giddy precipices, where 
even on foot Arthur would have hesitated to venture. The 
scenery would now be thought magnificent, but it was 
simply frightful to the mind of the early eighteenth cent- 
ury, especially when a constant watch had to be kept to 
avoid the rush of stones, or avalanches, on an almost im- 
perceptible, nearly perpendicular path, where it was need- 
hil to trust to the guidance of the Simakite, the only one 
of the cavalcade who had been there before. 

On the last day they found themselves on the borders of 
a slope of pines and other mountain-growing trees, border- 
ing a wide valley or ravine where the Sunakite hinted that 
Abderrahman might be found. 

The cavalcade pursued a path slightly indicated by the 
treading of feet and hoofs, and presently there emerged 
on them from a slighter side-track between the red 
stems of the great pines a figure nearly bent double 
under the weight of two huge fagots, with a basket of 
great solid fir-cones on the top of them. Very scanty gar- 
ments seemed to be vouchsafed to him, and the bare arms 
and legs were so white, as well as of a length so unusual 
among Arabs or Moors, that simultaneously the Marabout 
exclaimed, “One of the Giaour captives,” and Arthur 
cried out, La Jeunesse! Laurence!” 

There was only just time for a start and a response. 
“ Monsieur Arture! And is it yourself?” before a howl of 
vituperation was heard— of abuse of all the ancestry of the 
cur of an infidel slave, the father of tardiness— and a sav- 
age-looking man appeared, brandishing a cudgel, with 
which he was about to belabor his unfortunate slave, 
Avhen he was arrested by astonishment, and perhaps ter- 
ror, at the goodly company of Marabouts. Hadji Eseb en 


US 


A JIODFBiy TELEMACHUS, 


xered into conversation with him, and meanwhile Lanty 
broke forth, “ 0 wirrah, wirrah. Master Arthur! an’ have 
they made a hay then Moor of ye? By the powers, but this 
is worse than all. What will mademoiselle say? — she that 
has held up the faith of every one of us, like a little saint 
and martyr as she is! Though, to be sure, ye are but a 
•Protestant; only these folks don’t know the differ.” 

“If you would let me speak, Laurence,” said Arthiu-. 
“you would hear that I am no more a Moslem than your 
self, only my Frank dress might lead to trouble. We are 
come to deliver you all, ^^’ith a ransom from the French 
consul. Are yoii all safe -mademoiselle and all? and how 
many of you?” 

“ Mademoiselle and Monsieur T Abbe were safe and well 
three days since,” said Lanty ; “but that spalpeen there is 
my master and poor Victorine’s, and will not let us put a 
foot near them. ’ ’ 

“ Where are they? How many?” anxiously asked Ar- 
thur. 

“ There are live of us altogether,” said Lanty ; “ praise 
be to Him who has saved us thus far. We know the 
touch of cold steel at our throats, as well as ever I knew 
the poor misthress’ handbell ; and unless our lady, and St. 
Lawrence, and the rest of them keep the better watch on 
us, the rascals will only ransom us without our heads, so 
jealous and bloodthirsty they are. The Bey of Constan- 
tina sent for us once, but all we ^t by that was worse 
usage than the very dogs in Paris, ..and been dragged 
up these Aveary hills, where Maitre Hebert and I carried 
mademoiselle every foot of tlie way on our backs, and 
she begging our pardon so prettily —only she could not 
walk, the rocks had so bruised her darlin’ little feet. ’ ’ 

" This is their chief holy man, Lanty. If any one can 
prevail on these savages to release you it is he.”" 

“ And how come you to be hand and gloA’^e with them, 
Master Arthur— you that I thought drownded with poor 
madame and the little cheA^alier and the rest?” 

“ The chevalier is not droAvned, Leairent. He is safe in 
the consul’s house at Algiers.” 

“ Noav, Heaven and all the saints be praised 1 The chev- 
alier safe and Avell! ’Tis a veiy miracle !” cried Lanty, 
letting fall his burden, as he clasped his hands in ecstasy 
and performed a caper Avhich, in spite of all his master 
Eyoub’s respect tor the Marabouts, brought a furious yell 
of rage, and a tremendous blow with the cudgel, Avhicli 
Lanty, in his Joy, seemed to receiA^e as if it had been a 
feather. 

Hadji Eseb averted a further blow ; and understanding 
from Arthur that the poor fellow’s transport was ca,iisf*d 


A MODKRX TEL^\)rACHUS. 


119 


by the tidhigs of the safety of his master’s son, he seemed 
touched, and bade that he and Eyoub should lead the way 
to the place of durance of tlie chief prisoners. On the way 
Ibrahim Aga interrogated both Eyoub in vernacular Arabic 
and Lanty in F'rench. The former was sullen, only speak- 
ing from his evident awe of the Marabouts, the latter vol- 
uble with joy and hope. 

Arthur learned that the letter he had found under the 
stone was the fourth that Estelle and Hebert had written. 
There had been a terrible journey up the mountains, when 
Lanty had fully thought Victorine must close her suffer- 
ings in some frightful ravine ; but, nevertheless, she had 
recovered health and strength with every day’s ascent 
above the close, narrow valley. They were guarded all the 
way by Arabs armed to the teeth to prevent a rescue by 
the Bey of Constantina. 

On their arrival at the valley, which was the headquar- 
ters of the tribe, the sheik of the entire clan had laid claim 
to the principal captives, and had carried off the young 
lady and her uncle; and in his dwelling she had a boarded 
floor to sleep on, and had been made much more coni- 
fortable than in the squalid huts below. Pier original 
master, Yakoub, had, however come to seize her, with the 
force described by Murad. Then it was that again there 
was a threat to kill rather than resign them; but on this 
occasion it was averted b}^ Sheik Abderrahman’s son, a 
boy of about fourteen, who threw himself on his knees be- 
fore mademoiselle, and prayed his father earnestly for her 
life. 

'‘They spared her then,” said Lanty, “and, mayhap, 
worse still may come of that. Yakoub, the villain, ended 
by getting her back till they can have a council of their 
tribe, and there she is in his filthy hut; but the gossoon. 
Selim, as they call him, prowls about the place as if he were 
bewitched. All the children are, for that matter, where 
ever she goes. She makes cat’s-cradles for them, and sings 
to them, and tells them stories in her own sweet way out of 
the sacred history— such as may bring her into trouble one 
of these days. Maitre Hebert heard her one day telling 
them the story of Moses, and he warned her that if she went 
on in that fashion it might be the death of us all. ‘ But.’ 
says she, ‘ suppose we made Selim, and little Zuleika, and all 
the rest of them, Christians? Suppose we brought all the 
tribe to come down and ask baptism, like as St. Nona did 
in the ‘ Lives of the Saints?’ He told her it was more like 
that they would only get her darling little head cut off, if 
no worse, but he could not get her to think that mattered 
at all at all. She would haA'e a ci*own and a palm up in 


UH) A MODERN TELEMACIJC^. 

heaven, and V. M. after hername in the calendai^)n earth, 
bless her. ’ ’ 

Then he went on to tell that Yakoub was furious at the 
notion of resigning his prize, and (Agamemnon like) de- 
dared that if she were taken from him he should demand 
Victorine from Eyoub. Unfortunately she was recovering 
her good looks in the mountain air; and worse still the 
spring of her “blessed little Polichinelle “ was broken, 
though happily no one guessed it, and jiitherto it had been 
enough to show them the box. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

CHRYSEIS .\ND BRISEIS. 

“ The child 

Restore, I pray, her proffered ransom take, 

And in His priest, the Lord of Light revere. 

Then through the ranks assenting murmurs rang. 

The priest to reverence, and the ransom take.” 

Hornet' (Derby). 

For one moment, before emerging from the forest, look- 
ing through an opening in the trees, down a steep slope, a 
group of children could be seen on the grass in front of the 
liuts composing the adowara, little brown figures in scanty 
garments, lying about evidently listening intently to the 
figure, the gleam of whose blond hair showed her instantly 
to be Estelle de Bourke. 

However, either the deputation had been descried, or 
Eyoub may have made some signal, for when the caval- 
cade had wound about through the remaining trees, and 
arrived among the huts, no one was to be seen. There was 
only the irregular square of huts built of rough stones and 
thatched with reeds, with big stones to keep the thatch on 
in the storm; a few goats were tethered near, and there 
was a rush of the great savage dogs, but they recognized 
Eyoub and Lanty, and were presently quieted. 

“ This is the chief danger,” whispered Lanty. “Pray 
Heaven the rogues do not murder them rather than give 
them up !' ’ 

The Sunakite, beginning to make strange contortions and 
mutterings in alow voice, seemed to terrify Eyoub greatly. 
Whether he pointed it out or not, or whether Eyoub was 
induced by his gestures to show it, was not clear to Ar- 
thur's mind; but at the chief abode, an assemblage of two 
stone hovels and rudely-built walls, the partv halted, and 
made a loud knocking at the door, Hadji fiseb’s solemn 
tones bidding those within to open in the name of Allah. 

It w’as done, disclosing a vista of men with drawn cime 
lei’s. The Marabout demanded without ceremony where 
were the prisoners. 


A MODERS TELEMACHm. 


121 


'■ At yonder house,” he was answered by Yakoub him- 
self, pointing to the further end of the village. 

“Dog of a liar!” burst forth the Sunakite. “ Dost thou 
think to blind the eyes of the beloved of Allah, who know 
eth the secrets of heaven and earth, and hath the sigil of 
Suleiman Ben Daoud, wherewith to penetrate the secret 
places of the false?” 

The ferocious-looking guardians looked at each other as 
though under the influence of supernatural terror, and 
then Hadji Eseb spoke: “Salaam Aleikum, my children; 
no man need fear who listens to the will of Allah, and 
honors his messengers.” 

All made way for the dignified old man and his suit, 
and they advanced into the court, where two men with 
drawn swords were keeping guard over the captives, who 
were on their knees in a corner of the court. 

The sabers were sheathed, and there was a shuffling 
away at the advance of the Marabouts, Sheik Yakoub 
making some apology about having delayed to admit such 
guests, but excusing himself on the score of supposing they 
were emissaries sent by those whose authority he so defied 
that he had sworn to slaughter his prisoners rather than 
surrender them. 

Hadji Eseb replied with a quotation from the Koran for- 
bidding cruelty to the helpless, and sternly denounced 
wrath on the transgressors, bidding Yakoub draw off his 
savage body-guard. 

The man was plainly alarmed, more especially as the 
Sunakite broke out into one of his wild wails of denuncia- 
tion, waving his hands like a prophet of wrath, and pre- 
dfcting famine, disease, pestilence, to these slack observ- 
ers of the law of Mohammed. 

This completed the alarm. The body-guard fled away 
pell-mell, Yakoub after them. His women shut them- 
selves into some innermost recesses, and the field was left 
to the Marabouts and the prisoners, who, not understand- 
ing What all this meant, were still kneeling in their corner. 
Hadji Eseb bade Arthur and the interpreter go to reassure 
them. 

At their advance a miserable embrowned figure, bare- 
footed and half clad in a ragged haik, roped round his 
waist, threw himself before the fair-haired child, crying 
out in imperfect Arabic, “ Spare her, spare her, great lord! 
much is to be won by saving her.” 

“We are come to save her,” said Arthur in French. 
“ Maitre Hebert, do you not know me?” 

Hebert looked up. “Monsieur Arture! Monsieur Ar- 
ture! Risen from the dead!” he cried, threw himself into 
the young man’s arms, and burst out into a vehement sob; 


A MODERN TELEMACUl^H. 

but in a second he recovered his manners and fell back, 
while Estelle looked up. 

“Monsieur Arture,” she repeated. “Ah! is it you? 
Then, is my mamma alive and safe?” 

“Alas! no,” replied Arthur; “but your little brother is 
safe and well at Algiers, and this good man, the Marabout, 
is come to deliver you. ” 

“ My mamma said you would protect us, and I knew 
you would come, like Mentor, to save us,” said Estelle, 
clasping her hands with ineffable joy. “Oh, monsieur! I 
thank you next to the good God and the saints!” and she 
began fervently kissing Arthur’s hand. He turned to 
salute the abbe, but was shocked to see how much more 
vacant the poor gentleman’s stare had benome, and how 
little he seemed to comprehend. 

“Ah!” said Estelle, with her pretty, tender, motherly 
air, “ 1113^ poor uncle has never seemed to understand since 
that dreadful day when they dragged him and Maitre 
Hebert out into the wood and were going to kill them. 
And he has fever every night. But, oh. Monsieur Arture, 
did 3^ou say my brother was safe?” she repeated, as if not 
able to dwell enough upon the glad tidings. 

“ And I hope you will soon be with him," said Arthur. 

‘ ‘ But, mademoiselle, let me present you to the Grand 
Marabout, a sort of Moslem abbe, who has come all this 
wa3^ to obtain your release.” 

He led Estelle forward, when she made a courtesy fit for 
her grandmother’s salon, and in very fluent Cabele3'ze 
dialect gave thanks for the kindness of coming to release 
her, and begged him to excuse her uncle, who was sick, 
and, as you say here, “stricken of Allah.” 

The little French demoiselle’s grace and politeness were 
b\^ no means lost on the Marabout, who replied to her 
graciousl}- ; and at the sight of her reading Monsieur Des 
sault’s letter, which the interpreter presented to her, one 
of the suit could not help exclaiming, ‘ ‘ Ah ! if w^omen such 
as this wull be went abroad in our streets, there w’ ould be 
nothing to hope for in Paradise. ’ ’ 

Estelle did not seem to have suffered in health ; indeed, 
in Arthur’s e3"es, she seemed in these six weeks to have 
grown, and to have more color, while her expression had 
become less childish, deeper, and higher. Her hair did not 
look neglected, though her dress— the same dark blue 
^vhich she had worn on the voyage — had become very 
ragged and soiled, and her shoes were broken, and tied oii 
with strips of i:ag. 

She gave a little'scream of joy when the parcel of clothes 
sent b}" the French consul was given to her, onl3^ longing to 
send some to Yictorine before ^e retired to enjo}' the com 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


123 


fort of clean and respectable clothing ; and in the meantime 
something was attempted for the comfort of her com 
panions, though it would not have been safe to put them 
into Frankish garments, and none had been brought. Poor 
Hebert was the very ghost of the stout and important 
maitre d'dotel, and, indeed, the faithful man had borne the 
brunt of all the privations and sufferings, doing his utmost 
to shield and protect his little mistress and her helpless 
uncle. 

When Estelle reappeared, dressed once more like a little 
French lady (at least in the eyes of those who were not 
particular about fit), she found a little feast prepared for 
her out of the provisions sent by the cont>uls; but she could 
not sit down to it till Arthur, escorted by several of the 
Marabout’s suite, had carried a share both of the food and 
the garments to Lanty and Victor ine. 

They, however, were not to be found. The whole 
adowara seemed to be deserted except by a few frightened 
women and children, and Victorine and her Irish swain 
had no doubt been driven off into the woods by Ryoub — no 
Achilles certainly, but equally unwilling with the great 
Pelides to resign Briseis as a substitute for Chryseis. 

It was too late to attempt anything more that night; in 
deed, at sundown it became very cold. A fire was lighted 
in the larger room, in the center, where there was a hole 
for the exit of the smoke. The Marabouts seemed to be 
praying or reciting the Koran on one side of it, for there 
was a continuous chant or hum going on there; but they 
seemed to have no objection to the Christians sitting to 
gether on the other side conversing and exchanging ac- 
counts of their adventures. Maitre Hebert could not 
sufficiently dilate on the spirit, cheerfulness and patience 
that mademoiselle had displayed through all. He only had 
to lament her imprudence in trying to talk of the Christian 
faith to the children, telling them stories of the saints, and 
doing what, if all the tribe had not been so ignorant, would 
have brought destruction on them all. “I would not have 
monseigneur there know of it for worlds,” said he, glanc- 
ing at the Grand Marabout. 

* ‘ Selim loves to hear such things, ’ ’ said Estelle, com- 
posedly. “ I have taught him to say the Pater- nos ter, and 
the meaning of it, and Zuleika can nearly say them.” 

‘ “ Misericorde .'” cried Monsieur Hebert. ' ‘ What may n ot 
the child have brought on herself !’ ' 

“Selim will be a chief,” returned Estelle. “ He will 
make his people do as he pleases, or he would do so; but 
now there will be no one to tell him about the true God and 
the blessed Saviour,” she added, sadly. 

“Mademoiselle!” cried Hebert in indignant anger 


124 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


‘ ‘ Mademoiselle would not be ungrateful for our safety from 
these horrors.” 

“Oh, no!” exclaimed the child. “I am verj^ bappy to 
return to my poor papa, and my brothers, and my grand- 
mamma. But I am sorry for Selim ! Perhaps some good 
mission fathers would go out to them like those we heard 
of in Arcadia ; and by and by, when I am grown up, I can 
come back with some sisters to teach the women to wash 
their children and not scold and fight. ’ ’ 

The maitre d' hotel sighed, and was relieved when Estelle 
retired to the deserted women’s apartments for the night. 
He seemed to think her dangerous language might be un- 
derstood and reported. 

The next morning the Marabout sent messengers, who 
brought back Yakoub and his people, and before many 
hours a sort of council was convened in the court of Ya- 
koub’ s house, consisting of all the neighboring heads of 
families, browm men, whose eyes gleamed fiercely out from 
under their haiks, and who were armed to the teeth with 
sabers, daggers, and, if possible, pistols and blunderbusses 
of all the worn-out patterns in Europe — some no doubt as 
old as the Thirty Years’ War; while those 'who could not 
attain to these weapons had the long spears of their ances- 
tors, and were no bad representatives of the Amalekites of 
old. 

After all had solemnly taken their seats there Avas a fresh 
arrival of Sheik Abderrahman and his ferocious-looking 
following. He himself was a man of fine bearing, with a 
great black beard, and a gold-embroidered sash stuck full 
of pistols and knives, and wdth poor Madame de Bourke’s 
best pearl necklace round his neck. His son Selim was 
wuth him, a slim youth, with beautiful soft eyes glancing 
out from under a haik striped with many colors, such as 
may have been the coat that marked Joseph as the heir. 

There were many salaams and formalities, and then the 
chief Marabout made a speech, explaining the purpose of 
his coming, diplomatically allowing that the Cabeleyzes 
w’ere not subject to the Dey of Algiers, but showing that 
they enjoyed the advantages of the treaty with France, 
and that therefore they were bound to release the unfortu- 
nate shipwrecked captives, whom they had already plun- 
dered of all their property. So far Estelle and Arthur, who 
were anxiously watching, crouching behind the w’-all of the 
deserted house court, could follow^ Then arose yells and 
shouts of denial, and words too rapid to be followed. In a 
lull. Hadji Eseb might be heard proffeiing ransom, while 
the cries and shrieks so well known to accompany bar 
gaining broke out. 

Tbranim Aga, w^ho stood by the wall, here told them tbai 


. A MODERN TELEMAiNJUS. 125 

Yakoub and Eyoub seemed not unwilling to consent to the 
redemption of the male captives, but that they claimed 
both the females. Hebert clinched his teeth, and bade 
Ibrahim interfere and declare that he would never be set 
free witliout his little lady. 

Here, however, the tumult lulled a little, and Abder- 
rahmau's voice was heard declaring that he claimed the 
daughter of the Silkworm as a wife for his son. 

Ibrahim then sprung to the Marabout’s side, and was 
heard representing that the young lady was of high and 
noble blood. To which Abderrahman replied, with the 
dignity of an old lion, that were she the daughter of the 
King of the Franks himself, she would only be a fit mate 
for the son of the King of the Mountains. A fresh roar of 
jangling and disputing began, during which Estelle whis- 
pered, Poor Selim, I know he would believe — he half does 
already. It would be like Clotilda.” 

” And then he would be cruelly murdered, and you too,” 
returned Arthur. 

“We should be martyrs,” said Estelle, as she had so 
often said before ; and as Hebert shuddered and cried, “Do 
not speak of such things, mademoiselle, just as there-4s 
hope,” she answered, “Oh, no! do not think I want to 
stay in this dreadful place— only if I should have to do so 
—I long to go to my brother and my poor papa. Then I 
can send some good fathers to convert them.” 

‘ ‘ Ha 1’ ’ cried Arthur ; “ what now 1 They are at one an- 
other’s throats!” 

Yakoub and Eyoub with flashing sabers were actually 
flying at each other, but Marabouts were seizing them and 
holding them back, and the Sunakite’s chant rose above 
all the uproar. 

Ibrahim was able to explain that Yakoub insisted that 
if the mistress were appropriated by Abderrahman, the 
maid should be his compensation. Eyoub, who had been 
the foremost in the rescue from the wreck, was furious at 
tlie demand, and they were on the point of fighting when 
thus withheld; while the Sunakite was denouncing woes 
on the spoiler and the lover of Christians, which made the 
blood of the Cabeleyzes run cold. Their flocks would be 
diseased, storms from the mountains would overwhelm 
them, their children would die, their name and race be cut 
off, if infidel girls were permitted to bewitch them, and 
turn them from the faith of the prophet. He pointed to 
young Selim, and demanded whether he were not already 
spellbound by the silken daughter of the Giaour to join in 
her idolatry. 

There were howls of rage, a leaping up, a drawing of 
swords, a demand that the unbelievers should die at once, 


126 


A MOVIiJBN TELEMACHUS. 


It, was a cry the captives knew only too well. Arthur 
grasped a pistol, and loosened his sword, but young Selim 
had thrown himself at the marabout’s feet, sobbing out 
entreaties that the maiden’s life might be saved, and as- 
surances that he was a stanch believer; while his father, 
scandalized at such an exhibition on behalf of any such 
chattel as a female, roughly snatched him from the ground, 
and insisted on his silence. 

The Marabouts had, at their chief’s signal, ranged them 
selves in front of the inner court, and the authority of the 
Hadji had imposed silence even on the fanatic. He spoke 
again, making them understand that Frankish vengeance 
in case of a massacre could reach them even in their 
mountains when backed by the dey. And to Abderrah 
man he represented that the only safety for his son, the 
only peace for his tribe, was in the surrender of these two 
dangerous causes of altercation. 

The King of the Mountains was convinced by the scene 
that had just taken place of the inexpedience of retaining 
the prisoners alive. And some pieces ‘)f gold thrust into 
his hand by Ibrahim may have shown him that much 
might be lost by slaughtering them. 

The Babel which next arose was of the amicable bargain 
iiig sort. And after another hour of suspense the inter 
preter came to announce that the mountaineers, out of 
iheir great respect, not for the dey, but the Marabout, had 
agreed to accept nine hundred piasters as the ransom of all 
the five captives, and that the Marabout recommended an 
immediate start, lest anything should rouse the ferocity of 
the tribe again. 

Estelle’s warm heart would fain have taken leave of the 
few who had been kind to her; but this was impossible, for 
tlie women were in hiding, and she could only leave one or 
two kerchiefs sent from Algiers, hoping Zuleika might 
have one of them. Ibrahim insisted on her being veiled as 
closely as a Mohammedan woman as she passed out. One 
look between her and Selim might have been fatal to all ; 
though hers may have been in all childish innocence ; she 
did not know how the firery youth was writhing in his 
father’s indignant grasp, forcibly withheld from rushing 
after one who had been a new life and revelation to him. 

Mayhap the passion was as fleeting as it was violent, but 
the Marabout knew it boded danger to the captives to 
whom he had pledged his honor. He sent them, mounted 
on mules, on in front, while he and his company remained 
in the rear, watching till Lanty and Victorine were driven 
up like cnttle by Eyoub, to whom he paid an earnest of his 
special share of the ransom. He permitted no pause, not 
even for a greeting between Estelle and poor Victorine 


A MODERN TELEMACHim. 


m 


nor to clothe the two unfortunates, more than by throwing 
a mantle to poor Victorine, who had nothing but a short 
petticoat and a scanty, ragged, filthy bournous. She 
shrouded herself as well as she could when lifted on her 
mule, scarce perhaps yet aware what had happened 1o her, 
only that Lanty was near, muttering benedictions and 
thanksgivings as he vibrated between her mule and that of 
the abbe. 

It was only at the evening halt that, in a cave on the 
mountain-side, Estelle and Victorine could cling to each 
other in a close embrace with sobs of joy; and while 
Estelle eagerly produced clothes from her little store of 
gifts, the poor de charnhre wept for 303’ to feel indeed 
that she was free, and shed a fresh shower of tears of jo,y at 
the sight of a brush and comb. 

Lanty was purring over his foster-brother, and cosseting 
him like a cat over a newly-recovered kitten, resolved not 
to see how much shaken the poor abbe’s intellect had been, 
and quite sure that the reverend father would be altogether 
himself when he only had his soutane again. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

WELCOME. 

“ Well hath the Prophet-chief your bidding done.” 

Moore — “ Lalla Rookh.” 

Bugia was thoroughly Moorish, and subject to attacks 
of fanaticism. Perhaps the Grand Marabout did not 
wholly trust the Sunakite not to stir up the populace, for 
he would not take the recovered captives to his palace, 
avoided the city as much as possible, and took them down 
to tlie harbor, where, beside the old Roman quay, he caused 
his trusty attendant, Reverdi, to hire a boat to take thepi 
out to the French tartan— Reverdi himself going with them 
to insure the fidelity of the boatmen. Estelle would have 
kissed the good old man’s hand in fervent thanks, but, 
child as she was, he shrank from her touch as an unholy 
thing; and it was enforced on her and Victorine that 
they were by no means to remove their heavy mufflings 
till they were safe on board the tartan, and even out of 
harbor. 

The Frenchman in command of the vessel was evidently 
of the same mind, and, though enchanted to receive them, 
sent them at once below. He said his men had been in 
danger of being mobbed in the streets, and that there were 
reports abroad that the harem of a great Frank chief, and 
all his treasure, were being recovered from the Cabelej^zes, 
so that he doubted whether all the influence of the 


m A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 

Grand Marabout might prevent their being pursued by 
corsairs. 

Eight glad was he to recognize the pennant of the Ca- 
lypso outside the harbor, and he instantly ran up a signal 
flag to intimate success. A boat was immediately put off 
from the frigate, containing not only Lieutenant Bullock, 
but an oflicer in scarlet, who had no sooner come on deck 
than he shook Arthur eagerly by the hand, exclaiming: 

“’Tis you, then! I cannot be mistaken in poor Davie’s 
son, though you were a mere bit bairn when I saw you 
last!” 

‘‘ Archie Hope !” exclaimed Arthur, joyfully. ” Can you 
tell me anything of my mother?” 

” She was well when I last heard of her, -only sore vexed 
that you should be cut off from her by your own fule deed, 
my lad ! Ye’ve thought better of it now?” 

Major Hope was here interrupted by the lieutenant, who 
brought an invitation from Captain Beresford to the whole 
French party to bestow themselves on board the Calypso. 
After ascertaining that the Marabout had taken up their 
cause, and that the journey up Mount Couco and back 
again could not occupy less than twelve or fourteen days, 
he had sailed for Minorca, where he had obtained sanction 
to convey any of the captives who might be rescued, to 
Algiers. He had also seen Major Hope, who, on hearing of 
the adv^entures of his young kinsman, asked leave of ab- 
sence to come in search of him, and became the guest of the 
officers of the Calypso. 

Arthur found himself virtually the head of the party, 
and, after consultation with Ibrahim Aga and Maitre 
Hebert, it was agreed that there would be far more safety, 
as well as better accommodation, in the British ship than 
in the French tartan, and Arthur went down to communi- 
cate the proposal to Estelle, whom the close, little, evil- 
smelling cabin was already making much paler than all 
her privations had done. 

“An English ship,” she said. “Would my papa ap 
prove?” and her little prim diplomatic air sat comically on 
her. 

“Oh. yes, said Arthur. “ He himself asked the captain 
to seek for you, mademoiselle. There is peace between our 
countries, you know.” 

“ That is good, ” she said, jumping up. “For,~oh! this 
cabin is worse than it is inside Yakoub’s hut ! Oh, take 
me on deck before T am ill !” 

She was able to be her own little charming French and 
Irish self when Arthur led her oil deck; and her gracious 
thanks and pretty courtesy made them agree that it would 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 129 

have been ten thousand pities if such a creature could not 
have been redeemed from the savage Arabs. 

The whole six were speedily on board the Calypso, 
where Captain Beresford received the little heroine with 
politeness worthy of her own manners. lie had given up 
bis own cabin for her and Victorine, purchased at Port 
Mahon all he thought she could need, and had ev^en recol- 
lected to procure clerical garments for the abbe— a sight 
which rejoiced Lanty’s faithful heart, though the poor 
abbe was too ill all the time of the voyage to leave his 
berth. Arthur’s arrival was greeted by the Abyssinian 
with an inarticulate howl of delight, as the poor fellow 
crawled to his feet, and began kissing them before he could 
prevent it. 

Fareek had been the pet of the sailors, and well taken 
care of by the boatswain. He was handy, quick, and use- 
ful, and Captain Beresford thought he might pick up a liv 
ing as an attendant in the galley ; but he showed that he 
held himself to belong absolutely to Arthur, and rendered 
every service to him that he could, picking up what was 
needful in the care of European clothes by imitation of the 
captain’s servant, and showing a dexterity that made it 
probable that his cleverness had been the cause of the loss 
of a tongue that might have betrayed too much. To young 
Hope he seemed like a sacred legacy from poor Tam, and 
a perplexing one, such as he could hardly leave in his dumb- 
ness to take the chances of life among sailors. 

His own plans were likewise to be considered, and Major 
Hope concerned himself much about them. He was a sec- 
ond cousin— a near relation in Scottish estimation — and no 
distant neighbor. His family were Tories, though content 
to submit to the House of Hanover, and had always been 
on friendly terms with Lady Hope. 

“ I writ at once, on hearing of you, to let her know you 
were in safety,” said the major. “And what do you in- 
tend the noo?” 

“Can 1 win home?” anxiously asked Arthur. “You 
know I never was attainted!” 

“ And what Avould ye do if you were at home?” 

“ I should see my mother.” 

“ Snicill doubt of the welcome she would have for you, 
my poor laddie,” said the major; “ but what next?” And 
as Arthur hesitated, “I misdoubt greatly whether Burn- 
side would give you a helping hand if you came fresh from 
(•olloguing with French Jaccmites, though my fatlua* and 
all the rest of us at the Lynn aye told him that he might 
thank himself and his dour old dominie for your prank— 
you were but a schoolboy t lien— you are a man now; and 
though your poor mothei- wonld be blithe to set eyes on 


A MODERN TKLEMACHUS, 


lao 

you, she would be sairly perplexed what gate you had best 
turn thereafter. Now, see here! There’s talk of our 
being sent to dislodge the Spaniards from Sicily. You are 
a likely lad, and the colonel would take my word for you 
if you came back with me to Port Mahon as a volunteer ; 
and once under King George’s colors, there would be pres- 
sure enough from all of us Hopes upon Burnside to gar him 
get you a commission, unless you win one for yourself. 
Then you could gang hame when the time was served, a 
credit and an honor to all!’’ 

“I had rather win my own way than be beholden to 
Burnside, ’ ’ said Arthur, his face lighting at the proposal. 

“Hout, man! That will be as the chances of war may 
turn out. As to your kit, we’ll see to that! Never fear. 
Your mother will make it up.” 

“Thanks, Archie, with all my heart, but I am not so 
destitute,” and he mentioned Yusuf’s legacy, which the 
major held that he was perfectly justified in appropriating; 
and in answer to his next question, assured him that he 
would be able to retain Fareek as his servant. 

This was enough for Arthur, who knew that the relief to 
his mother’s mind of his safety and acceptance as a subject 
would outweigh any disappointment at not seeing his face, 
when he would only be an unforgiven exile, liable to be in- 
formed against by any malicious neighbor. 

He borrowed materials, and had written a long letter to 
her before the Calypso put in at Algiers. The little swift 
tartan had forestalled her; and every one was on the 
watch, when Estelle, who had been treated like a little 

g rincess on board, was brought in the long boat with all 
er party to the quay. Though it was at daybreak, not 
only the European inhabitants, but Turks, Arabs, Moors, 
and Jews thronged the wharf in welcome; and there were 
jubilant cries as all the five captives could be seen seated in 
the boat in the light of the rising sun. 

Monsieur Dessault, with Ulysse in his hand, stood fore- 
most on the quay, and the two children were instantly in 
each other’s embrace. Their uncle had to be helped out. 
He was more bewildered than gratified by the welcome. 
He required to be assured that the multitudes assembled 
meant him no harm, and would not move without Lanty ; 
and though he bowed low in return to Monsieur Dessault ’s 
greeting, it was like an automaton, and with no recogni- 
tion. 

Estelle, between her brother and her friend, and fol 
lowed by all the rest, was conducted by the French consul 
to the chapel, arranged in one of the Moorish rooms. There 
stood beside the altar his two chaplains, and at once mass 
was commenced, while all threw themselves on their knees 


A MODERN TELEMACHUS. 


131 


in thankfulness; and at the well-known sound a ray of in- 
telligence and joy began to brighten even poor Phelim’s 
features. 

Arthur, in overflowing joy, could not but kneel with the 
others; and when the service concluded with the Te 
Deiuii’s lofty praise, his tears dropped for joy and grati- 
tude that the captivity was over, the children safe, and 
himself no longer an outcast and exile. 

He had, however, to take leave of the children sooner 
than he wished, fur the Calypso had to sail the next daj". 

Ulysse wept bitterly, clung to him, and persisted that he 
ivas their secretary, and must go with them. Estelle, too, 
had tears in her eyes; but she said, half in earnest, “You 
know. Mentor vanished when Telemaque came home! 
Some day, monsieur, you will come to see us at Paris, and 
we shall know how to show our gratitude!” 

Both Lanty and Maitre Hebert promised to write to Mon- 
sieur Arture; and in due time he received not only their 
letters, but tervid acknowledgments from the Comte de 
Bourke, who knew that to him was owing the life and lib- 
erty of the children. 

From Lanty Arthur further heard that the poor ahhe 
had languished and died soon after reaching home. His 
faithful foster-brother was deeply distressed, though the 
family had rewarded the fidelity of the servants by pro- 
moting Hebert to be intendant of the Provencal estates, 
while Lanty was Avedded to Victorine, Avith a clot that 
enabled them to start a flourishing perriiqiiier s shop, 
and make a home for his mother Avhen little Jacques out- 
grew her care. 

Estelle Avas in due time married to a French nobleman, 
and in after years “ General Sir Arthur Hope ” took his son 
and daughter to pay her a long visit in her Piwoncrd 
chateau, and to converse on the strange adventures that 
seemed like a dream. He found her a noble ladjr, well ful- 
filling the promise of her heroic girlhood, and still lament- 
ing the impossibility of sending any mission to open the 
eyes of the half converted Selim. 


[THE END.[ 


/ . * 



t 


HENRIETTA’S WISH; 

OR, 

13 ODvcinsTE E i?,zisrG}-. 

BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. 


CHAPTER I. 

On the afternoon of a warm day in the end of July, an 
open carriage was waiting in front of the painted, toy-look- 
ing building, which served as the railway station of Teign- 
mouth. The fine ‘bay horses stood patiently enduring the 
attacks of hosts of winged foes, too well behaved to express 
their annoyance otherwise than b}" twitchings of their 
sleek, shining skins, but duly grateful to the coachman, 
who aroused himself now and then to whisk off some more 
pertinacious tormentor with the end of his whip. 

Less patient was the sole occupant of the carriage, a 
maiden of about sixteen years of age, whose shady, daik- 
gray eyes, parted lips and flushed complexion, were ail 
full of the utmost eagerness, as every two or three min- 
utes she looked up from the book which slie held in her 
hand, to examine the clock over the station door, compai'e 
it with her watch, and study the countenances of the by- 
standers to see whether they expressed any anxiety r(‘- 
specting the non-arrival of the train. All, however, 
seemed quite at their ease; and after a time the arrival of 
the railway omnibus and two or three other carriages, con- 
vinced her that the rest of the world only now began to 
consider it to be due. At last the ringing of a bell quick- 
ened everybody into a sudden state of activity, and as- 
sured her that the much-desired moment was come. The 
cloud of smoke was seen, the panting of the engine was 
heard, the train displayed its length before the sta- 
tion, men ran along tapping the doors of tlie carriages, 
and shouting a word which bore some distant resemblance 


134 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


to “ Teignmouth,’' and at the same moment various trav- 
elers emerged from the different vehicles. 

Her eye eagerly sought out one of these arrivals, who, 
on liis side, after a liasty greeting to the servant, who met 
him on the platform, hurried to the carriage, and sprung 
into it. The two faces, exactly alike in form, complexion, 
and features, were for one moment pressed together, then 
withdrawn, in the consciousness of the publicity of the 
scene, but the hands remained locked together, and ear- 
nest was the tone of the “ Well, Fred!” ‘’Well Henri- 
etta!” which formed the greeting of the twin brother and 

“And was not mamma well enough to come?” asked 
Frederick, as the carriage turned away from the station. 

“ She was afraid of the heat. She had some business let- 
ters to write yesterday which teased her, and she has not 
recovered from them yet; but she has been very well, on 
the whole, this summer. But what of your school affairs, 
Fred? How did the examination go off?” 

“ I am fourth, and Alex Langford fifth. Every one says 
the prize will lie bcitween us next year.” 

“Surely,” said Henrietta, “you must be able to beat 
him. then, if you are before him now.” 

“ Don’t make too sure, Henrietta,” said Frederick, shak- 
ing his head. “ Langford is a hard-working fellow, very 
exact and accurate ; I should not have been before him now 
if it had not been for my verses.” 

“ I know Beatrice is very proud of Alexander,” said Hen- 
rietta; “she would make a great deal of his success.” 

“Why of his more than of that of any other cousin ?” 
said Frederick, with some dissatisfaction. 

“ Ob, you know he is the only one of the Knight Sutton 
cousins whom she patronizes; all the others she calls cubs 
and bears and Osbaldistones. And indeed, Uncle Geoffrey 
says he thinks it was in great part owing to her that Alex 
is diffei’ent from tlie rest. At least he began to think him 
worth cultivating from the time he found him and Busy 
Bee perched up together in an apple-tree, she telling him 
the story of Alexander the Great. And how she always 
talks about Alex when she is here.” 

“Is she at Knight Sutton?” 

“Yes, Aunt Geoffrey would not come here because she 
did not wish to be far from London, because old Lady 
Susan has not been well. And only think, Fred, Queen 
Bee says there is a very nice house to be let close to the 
village, and they went to look at it with grandpapa, and 
he kept on saying how well it would do for us.” 

“Oh, if we could but get mamma there!” said Fred, 
“ What does she say?” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


ViX 

“She knows the house, and says it is a very pleasant 
one,” s id Henrietta; “ but that is not an inch — ho, not the 
hundredth part of an inch — toward going there!” 

“ It would surely be a good thing for her if she could but 
be brouglit to believe so,” said Frederick. “ All her tittacli- 
ments are there— her own home; my father’s home.” 

“There is nothing but the sea to be attached to, here,” 
said Henrietta. “ Nobody can take root without some 
local interest, and as to acquaintance, the people are 
always changing.” 

“And there is nothing to do,” added Fred; “nothing 
possible but boating and riding, which are not worth the 
misery which they cause her, as Uncle Geoffrey says. It 
is very, very ” 

“Aggravating,” said Henrietta, supplying one of the 
numerous stock of family slang words. 

“Yes, aggravating,” said he, with a smile; “to be 
placed under the necessity of being absurd, or of annoy- 
ing her!” 

“Annoying! Oh, Fred, you do not know a quarter of 
wliat she goes through when she thinks you are in any 
danger. It could not be worse if you were on the field of 
battle ! And it is very strange, for she is not at all a timid 
person for herself. In the boat, that time when the wind 
rose, I am sure Aunt Geoffrey was more afraid than she 
was, and I have seen it again and again that she is not 
easily frightened.” 

“No; and I do not think she is afraid for you.” 

“ Not as she is for you, Fred ; but then boys are so much 
more precious than girls, and besides they love to en- 
danger themselves so much, that I think that is reason- 
able.” 

“ Uncle Geoffrey thinks there is something nervous and 
morbid in it,” said Fred ; “he thinks that it is the remains 
of the horror of the sudden shock ” 

“What? Our father’s accident?” asked Henrietta. “I 
never knew rightly about that. I only knew it was when 
we were but a week old.” 

“No one saw it happen,” said Fred; “he went out rid- 
ing, his horse came home without him, and he was lying 
by the side of the road.” 

“ Did they bring him home?” asked Henrietta, in the 
same low, thrilling tone in which her brother spoke. 

“Yes, but he never recovered his senses; he just said 
‘ Mary,’ once or twice, and only lived to the middle of the 
night!” 

“ Terrible!” said Henrietta, with a shudder. “ Oh, how 
did mamma ever recover it? at least, I do not think she 


136 HENRIETTA'S WISH. 

has recovered it now— but I meant live, or be even as well 
as she is.” 

“ She was fearfully ill for long, after,” said Fred, “ and 
Uncle Geoffrey thinks that these anxieties for me are an 
effect of the shock. He says they are not at all like her 
usual character. I am sure it is not to be wondered at.” 

“ Oh, no, no !” said Henrietta. “ What a mystery it has 
always seemed to us about papa ! She sometimes mention- 
ing him in talking about her childish days and Knight 
Sutton, but if we tried to ask any more, grandmamma 
stopping us directly, till we learned to believe we ought 
never to utter his name. I do believe, though, that 
mamma herself would have found it a comfort to talk to 
us about him, if poor dear grandmamma had not always 
cut her short, for fear it should be too much for her.” 

“ But had you not always an impression of something 
dreadful about his death?” 

“Oh, yes, yes; I do not know how we acquired it, but 
that I am sure we had, and it made us shrink from asking 
any questions, or even from talking to each other about it. 
All I knew I heard from Beatrice. Did Uncle Geoffrey tell 
you this?” 

“ Yes, he told me when he was here last Easter, and I 
was asking him to speak to mamma about my fishing, and 
saying how horrid it was to be kept back from everything. 
First he laughed, and said it was the penalty of being an 
only son, and then he entered upon this history, to show 
me how it is.” 

“But it is very odd that she should have let you learn 
to ride, which one would have thought she would have 
dreaded most of all.” 

“ That was because she thought it right, he says. Poor 
mamma, she said to him, ‘ Geoffrey, if you think it riglit 
that Fred should begin to ride, never mind my folly.’ He 
says he thinks it cost her as much resolution to say that 
as it might to be mai tyred. And the same about going to 
school.” 

“ Yes, yes; exactly,” said Henrietta, “if she thinks it 
right, bear it she will, cost Iku* what it may ! O, tliere is 
nobody like mamma. Busy Bre says so, and she knows, 
living in London and seeing so many people as she does.” 

“ I never saw any one so like a queen,” said Fred. “ No, 
nor any one so beautiful, though she is so pale and thin. 
People say you are like her in her young days, PTenrietta; 
and, to b(* sure, you have a decent face of your own, but 
you will never be as beautiful as mamma, not if you live 
to be a hundred.” 

“You are afraid to compliment my face because it is so 
like your own, Master Fred,” retorted his sister: “ but one 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


137 


comfort is, that I shall grow more like her by living to a 
hundred, whereas you will lose all the little likeness you 
have, and grow a grim old Blackbeard. But I was going 
to say, Fred, that, though I think there is a great deal of 
truth in what Uncle Geoffrey said, yet I do believe that 
poor grandmamma made it worse. You know she had 
always been in India, and knew less about boys than 
mamma, who had been brought up with papa and my 
uncles, so she might really believe that everything was dan 
gerous ; and I have often seen her quite as much alarmed, 
or more, perhaps, about you— her consolation just showing 
' that she was in a dreadful fright, and so making mamma 
twice as bad.” 

“ Well,” said Fred, sighing, “ that is all over now, and 
she thought she was doing it all for the best.” 

“And,” proceeded Henrietta, “ I think, and Queen Bee 
thinks, that this perpetual staying on at Rocksand was 
more owing to her than to mamma,. She imagined that 
mamma could not bear the sight of Knight Sutton, and 
that it was a great kindness to keep her from thinking of 
moving ” 

• ‘ Ay, and that nobody can doctor her but Mr. Clarke, ” 
added Fred. 

“Till now, I really believe,” said Henrietta, “that the 
possibility of moving has entirely passed out of her mind, 
and she no more believes that she can do it than that the 
house can. ” 

“Yes,” said Fred, “ I do not think a journey occurs to 
her among events possible, and yet without being very 
fond of this place.” 

“Fond! O no! it never was meant to be a home, and 
has nothing homelike about it. All her affections are 
really at Knight Sutton, and if she once went there, she 
would stay and be so much happier among her own 
friends, instead of being isolated here with me. In grand- 
mamma’s time it was not so bad for her, but now she has 
no companion at all but me. Rocksand has all the loneli- 
ness of the country without its advantages.” 

“ There is not mifch complaint as to happiness, after 
all,” said Fred. 

“ No, O no! But then it is she who makes it delightful, 
and it cannot be well for her to have no one to depend upon 
but me. Besides, how useless one is here! No opportu- 
nity of doing anything for the- pocr people, no clergyman 
who will put one into the way of being useful. () how nice 
it would be at Knight Sutton!” 

“ And perhaps she would be cured of her fears,” added 
Fred; “ she would find no one to share them, and be con- 


138 


HENRI E TTA 'S 1 1 ^ISIL 


viiicod by seeing that the cousins there come to no harm. 
I wish Uncle Geoffrey would recommend it.” 

“Well, we will see what we can do,” said Henrietta. 
“ I do think we may persuade her, and I think we ought; 
it would be for her happiness and for yours, and on all ac- 
counts I am convinced that it ought to be done.” 

And as Henrietta came to this serious conclusion, they 
entered the steep, straggling street of the little town of 
Rocksand, and presently were within the gates of the 
sweep which led to the door of the verandaed Gothic cot- 
tage, which looked very tempting for a summer’s lodging, 
but was little fitted for a permanent abode. 

In spite of all the longing wishes expressed during the 
drive, no ancestral home, beloved by inheritance, could 
have been entered with more affectionate rapture than 
that with which Frederick Langford sprung from the car- 
riage, and flew to the arms of his mother, receiving and 
returning such a caress as could only be known by a boy 
conscious tliat he had done nothing to forfeit ho'medove 
and confidence. 

Turning back the fair hair that hung over his forehead, 
Mrs. Langford looked into his eyes, saying, half-interrog- 
atively, half-affirmatively : 

“All right, Fred? Nothing that we need be afraid to 
tell Uncle Geoffrey? Well, Henrietta, he is grown, but 
he has not passed you yet. And now, Freddy, tell us 
about your examination,” added she, as, fondly leaning 
on his arm, she proceeded into the drawing-room, and 
they sat down together on the sofa, talking eagerly and 
joyously. 

Mrs. Frederick Henry Langford (to give her her proper 
style) was in truth one whose peculiar loveliness of counte- 
nance well deserved the admiration expressed by her soil. 
It was indeed pale and cliin, but the features were beauti- 
fully formed, and had that expression of sweet, placid res- 
ignation which would liave made a far plainer face beau- 
tiful. The eyes were deep dark-blue, and though sorrow 
and suffi‘ring had dimmed their brightness, their softness 
was increased; the smile was one of*peace, of love, of 
serenity— of one who, though sorrow-stricken, as it were, 
before her time, had lived on in meek patience and sub- 
mission, almost a child in her ways, as devoted to her 
mother, as little with a will and way of her own, as free 
from the cares of this work-a-day world. Tiie long, lux- 
uriant dark-brown hair, which once, as now with Hen- 
rietta, had clustered in thick glossy ringlets over her comb 
and round her face, was in thick braids beneath the delicate 
lace cap which suited with her plain black silk dress. Her 
figure was slender, so tall that neither her well-grown son 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


1^9 


nor daughter had yet reached her height, and, as Fred- 
erick said, with something queenlike in its unconscious 
grace and dignity. 

Asa girl, she had been the merriest of the merry, and 
even now she had great playfulness of manner, and threw 
herself into the occupation of the moment with a life and 
animation that gave an uncommon charm to her manners, 
so that how completely sorrow had depressed and broken 
her spirit would scarcely have been guessed by one who 
had not known her in earlier days. 

Frederick’s account oC his journey and of his school 
news was heard and commented on, a work of time extend- 
ing far into the dinner; the next matter in the regular 
course of conversation on the day of arrival was to talk 
over Uncle and Aunt Geoffrey’s proceedings, and the 
Knight Sutton affaii'S. 

“So Uncle Geoffrey has been in the North?” said Fred. 

“Yes, on a special retainer,” said Mrs. Langford, “and 
very much he seems to have enjoyed his chance of seeing 
York Cathedral.” 

“ He wrote to me in court,” said Fred, “to tell me what 
books I had better get up for this examination, and on a 
• bit of paper scribbled all over one side with notes of the 
evidence. He said the cathedral was beautiful beyond all 
he ever imagined.” 

“ Had he never seen it before?” said Henrietta. “ Law- 
yers seem made to travel in their vacations.” 

“Uncle Geoffrey could not be spared,” said her mamma; 
“ I do not know what Grandmamma Langford would do 
if he cheated her of any more of his holiday than he b. - 
stows upon us. He is far too valuable to be allowed to take 
his own pleasure.” 

“Besides, his own pleasure is at Knight Sutton,” said 
Henrietta. 

“ He goes home just as he used from school,” said Mrs. 
Langford. “ Indeed, except a few gray hairs and ‘ crows- 
feet,’ he is not in the least altered from those days; his 
work and play come just in the same way.” 

“And, as his daughter says, he is just as much the 
home pet,” added Henrietta, “only rivaled by Busy Bee 
herself.” 

“ No,” said Fred, “ according to Aunt Geoffrey, they are 
two suns in one sphere; Queen Bee is grandpapa’s pet. 
Uncle Geoffrey grandmamma’s. It must be great fun to 
see them.” 

“Happy people!” said Mrs. Langford. 

“Henrietta says.” proceeded Fred, “that there is a 
house to be let at Knight Sutton.” 

“The Pleasance; yes, I know it well,” said his mother; 


140 


HENRIETTA'S WISH 


“ it is not actually in the parish, but close to the borders, 
and a very pretty place.” 

“With a pretty little stream in the garden, Fred,” said 
Henrietta, “ and looking into that beautiful Sussex coomb, 
that there is a drawing of in mamma’s room.” 

“ What size is it?” added Fred. 

“ The comparative degree,” said Mrs. Langford, “but my 
acquaintance with it does not extend beyond the recollec- 
tion of a pretty-looking drawing-room with French win- 
dows, and a lawn where I used to be allowed to run about 
when I went with Grandmamma. Langford to call on the 
old Miss Drakes. I wonder your Uncle Roger does not 
take it, for those boys can scarcely, I should think, be 
wedged into Sutton Leigh when they are all at home.” 

“ I wish some one else would take it,” said Fred. 

“Some one,” added Henrietta, “ who would like it of all 
things, and be quite at home there.” 

“ A person,” proceeded the boy, “ who likes Knight Sut- 
ton and its inhabitants better than anything else.” 

“ Only think,” joined in the young lady, “ how delight- 
ful it would be. I can just fancy you, mamma, sitting out 
on this lawn you talk of on a summer’s day, and nursing 
your pinks and carnations, and listening to the nightin-* 
gales, and Grandpapa and Grandmama Langford, and 
Uncle and Aunt Roger, and the cousins coming walking in 
at any time without ringing at the door? And how nice to 
have Queen Bee and Uncle and Aunt Geoffrey all the vaca- 
tion !” 

“Without feeling as if we were robbing Knight Sut- 
ton,” said Mrs. Langford. “Why, we should have you a 
regular little country maid, Henrietta, riding shaggy 
ponies, and scrambling over hedges, as your mamma did 
before you. ” 

“ And being as happy as a queen,” said Henrietta, ‘ ‘ and 
the poor people, you know them all, don’t you, mamma?” 

“I know their names, but my generation must have 
nearly passed away. But I should like you to see old 
Daniels the carpenter, whom the boys used to work with 
and who was so fond of them. And the old schoolmistress 
in her spectacles. How she must be scandalized by the in- 
ti oduction of a noun and verb !” 

“Who has been so cruel?” asked Fred. “Busy Bee, I 
suppose.” 

“ Yes,” said Henrietta, “she -teaches away with all her 
nught; but she says she is afraid they will forget it all 
wliile she is in London, for there is no one to keep it up. 
Now, I could do that nicely. How I should like to be Queen 
Bee’s deputy.” 

“ But,” said Fred, “ how does Beatrice manage to make 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 141 

grandmamma endure such novelties? I should think she 
would disdain them more than the old mistress herself.” 

“ Queen Bee’s is not merely a nominal sovereignty, ’’said 
Mrs. Langford. 

“ Besides,” said Henrietta, ‘‘ the new clergyman ap- 
proves of all that sort of thing; he likes her to teach, and 
puts her in the way of it.” 


CHAPTER II. 

From this time forward every thing tended toward Knight 
Sutton : castles in the air, persuasions, casual words which 
showed the turn of thought of the brother and sister, met 
their mother every hour. Nor was she, as Henrietta truly 
said, entirely averse to the change; she loved to talk of what 
she still regarded as her home, but the shrinking dread of 
the pang it must give to return to the scene of her happi- 
est days, to the burial-place of her husband, to the abode 
iof his parents, had been augmented by the tender, over- 
anxious care of her mother, Mrs. Vivian, who had stren- 
uously endeavored to prevent her from ever taking such 
;a proposal into consideration, and fairly led her at length 
ito believe it was out of the question. . 

A removal would in fact liave been impossible during 
the latter years of Mrs. Vivian’s life; but she had now been 
dead about eighteen months, her daughter had recovered 
from the first grief of her loss, and there was a general 
impression throughout the family that now was the time 
for hei* to come amongst them again. For herself, the 
possibility was but beginning to dawn upon her; just at 
first she joined in building castles and imagining scenes at 
Knight Sutton, without thinking of their being realized, or 
that it only depended upon her to find herself at home 
there ; and when Frederick and Henrietta, encouraged by 
this manner of talking, pressed it upon her, she would re- 
ply with some vague intention of a return some time or 
other, but still thinking of it as something far away, and 
rather to be dreaded than desired. 

It was chiefly by dint of repetition that it fully entered 
her mind that it was their real and earnest wish that she 
should engage to take a lease of the Pleasance, and remove 
almost immediately from her present abode; and from 
this time it might be perceived that she always shrunk 
from entering on the subject in a manner which gave them 
little reason to hope. 

“ Yet, I think,” said Henrietta to her brother one after- 
noon as they were walking together on the sands ; “ I think 
if she once thought it was right, if Uncle Geoffrey would tell 


142 


HENRIF/nWS WISH. 


hor so, or if grandpapa would really tell lier that lie wished 
it, I am quite sure that she would resolve upon it.'’ 

“ But why did he not do so long ago?” said Fred. 

“Oh! because of grandmamma, I suppose,” said Henri- 
etta; “but he really’' does wish it, and I should not at 
all wonder if the Busy Bee could put it into his head to 
do it.” 

“Or if Uncle Geoffrey would advise her,’’ said Fred; 
“ but it never answers to try to make him propose any- 
thing* to her. He never will do it; he always says he is 
not the pope, or something to that effect.” 

“ If I was not fully convinced that it was right, and the 
best for all parties, I would not say so much about it,” 
said Henrietta, in a tone rather as if she was preparing for 
some great sacrifice, instead of domineering over her 
mother. 

To domineering, her temptation was certainly great. 
With all her good sense and ability, Mrs. Langford had 
seldom been called upon to decide for herself, but had al- 
ways relied upon her mother for counsel; and during her 
long and gradual decline had learned to depend upon her 
brother-in-law, Mr. Geoffrey Langford, for direction in 
great affairs, and in lesser ones upon her children. Girls 
are generally older of their ago than boys, and Hcmrieta, a 
clever girl and her mother’s constant companion, occupied 
a position in the family which amounted to something 
more than prime minister. Some one person must always 
be leader, and thus she had gradually attained, or had 
greatness thrust upon her; for justice requires it to be 
stated, that she more frequently tried to know her mam- 
ma’s mind for her, than to carry her own point, though 
perhaps to do so always was more than could be expected 
of human nature at sixteen. The habit of being called on 
to settle w’hether they should use the britzska or the pony 
carriage, whether satin or silk was best, or this or that 
book should be ordered, was, however, sufficient to make 
her very unwilling to be thwarted in other matters of 
more importance, especially in one on which were fixed 
the most ardent hopes of her brother, and the wishes of 
all the family. 

Their present abode was, as she often said to herself, not 
the one best calculated for the holiday sports of a boy of 
sixteen, yet Frederick, having been used to nothing else, 
was very happy, and had tastes formed on their way of 
life. The twins, as little children, had always had the 
same occupations, Henrietta learning Latin, marbles, and 
trap ball, and Frederick playing with dolls and working 
cross-stitch ; and even now the custom, was so far contin- 
ued, that he gave lessons in Homer and Eiudid in return 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


143 


for those which he received in Italian and music. For 
present amusement there was no reason to complain ; the 
neighborhood supplied many beautiful walks, while longer 
expeditions were made with Mrs. Langford in the pony 
carriage, and sketching, botanizing, and scrambling were 
the order of the day. Boating, too, was a great delight, 
and had it not been for an occasional fretting recollection 
that he could not go out sailing without his mamma, and 
that most of his school-fellows were spending their holidays 
in a very different manner, he would have been perfectly 
happy. Fortunately he had not sufficient acquaintance 
with the boys in the neighborhood for the conU'ast to be 
often brought before him. 

Henrietta did not do much to reconcile him to the anx- 
ious care with which he was guarded. She was proud of 
his talents, of his accomplishments, of his handsome feat- 
ures, and she would willingly have been proud of iiis ex- 
cellence in manly sports; but in lieu of this she was proud 
of the spirit which made him long for them, and en- 
couraged it by her full and entire sympathy. Thb belief 
that the present restraints must be diminished at Knight 
Sutton was a moving spring with her, as much as her own 
wish for the scenes round which imagination had thrown 
such a brilliant halo. Of society they had hitherto seen 
little or nothing: Mrs. Langford’s health and spirits had 
never been equal to visiting, nor was there much to tempt 
her in the changing inhabitants of a watering place. Now 
and then, perhaps, an old acquaintance or distant connec 
tion of some part of the family came for a month or six 
weeks, and a few calls were exchanged, and it was one of 
these visits that led to the following conversation. 

“ By the bye, mamma,” said Fred, “ I meant to ask you 
what that foolish woman meant about the St. Legers, and 
their not having thoroughly approved of Aunt Geoffrey’s 
marriage.” 

About the most ill-placed thing she could have said, 
Freddy,” replied Mrs. Langford, “ considering that I was 
always accused of having made the match.” 

“Made the match ! O, tell us, mamma ; tell us all about 
it. Did 3"oii really?” 

“ Not consciously, Fred, and Frank St. Leger deserves 
quite as much of the credit as I do.” 

“ Who was he? a brother of Aunt Geoffrey's?'* 

“ O, yes, Fred,” said Henrietta, “to be sure you know 
that ’ You have heard how mamma came home from 
India with General St. Leger and his little boy and girl. 
By the bye, mamma, what became of their mother?” 

“ Lady Beatrice? She died in India just before we came 


M4 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


home. AV’ell, I used to stay with them after we came back 
to England, and of course talked to my friend ” 

“ Call her Beatrice, mamma, and make a story of it.” 

“ I talked to her about my Knight Sutton home, and 
cousins, and on the other hand, Frank was always telling 
her about his school friend, Geoffrey Langford. At last 
Frank brought him home with him from Oxford one 
Easter vacation. It was when the general was in com- 
mand at , and Beatrice was in the midst of all sorts of 

gayeties, the mistress of the house, entertaining everybody, 
and all exactly what a novel would call brilliant.” 

“ Were you there, mamma?” 

“ Yes, Beatrice had made a point of our coming to stay 
with her, and very droll it was to see how she and Geoffrey 
were surprised at each other; slie to find her brother’s 
guide, philosopher, and friend, the Langford who had 
gained every prize, a boyish-looking, boyish-mannered 
youth, very shy at first, and afterward, excellent at gig- 
gling and making giggle; and he to find one with the 
exterior of a fine, gay lady so really simple in tastes and 
habits.” 

“Was Aunt Geoffrey ever pretty?” asked Fred. 

“She is just what she was then, a little brown thing, 
with no actual beauty but in her animation and in her ex- 
pression. I never saw a really handsome person who 
seemed to me nearly as charming. Then she had, and in- 
deed has now, so much air and grace, so much of what, 
for want of a better word, I must call fashion in her ap- 
pearance, that she was always very striking.” 

“ Yes,” said Henrietta, ” I can quite see that; it is not 
gracefulness, and it is not beauty, nor is it what she ever 
thinks of, but there is something distinguished about lier. 
I sliould look twice at her if I met her in the street, 
and expect to see her get into a carriage with a coronet. 
And then and there they fell in love, did they ?” 

“ In long morning expeditions with the ostensible pur- 
pose of sketching, but in which I had all the drawing to 
myself, while the others talked either wondrous wisely or 
wondrous drolly. However, you must not suppose that 
anything of the novel kind was said then ; Geoffiy was 
only twenty, and Beatrice seemed as much out of his 
reach as the king s daughter of Hongarie.” 

‘‘0 yes, of course,” said Henrietta, “but that only 
makes it more delightful ! Only to think of Uncle and 
Aunt Geoffrey having a novel in their history.” 

” That there are better novels in real life than in stories, 
is a truth or a truism often repeated, Henrietta,” said her 
mother, with a soft sigh, which she repressed in an in- 
stant, and proceeded : ” Poor Frank’s illness and death at 


HENRIETTA’^ WISH. 


145 


Oxford brought them together the next year in a very dif- 
ferent manner. Geoffrey was one of his chief nurses to 
the last, and was a great comfort to them all ; you may 
suppose how grateful they were to him. Next time I saw 
him, he seemed quite to have biiried his youthful spirits 
in his studies; he was reading morn, noon, and night, and 
looking ill and overworked.” 

“ O, Uncle Geoffrey! dear, good Uncle Geoffrey!” cried 
Henrietta, in an ecstasy; “you were as delightful as a 
knight of old, only as you could not fight tournaments for 
her, you were obliged to read for her ; and pining away 
all the time and saying nothing about it.” 

“ Nothing beyond a demure inquiry of me when we were 
alone together, after the health of the general. Well, you 
know how well his reading succeeded, he took a double 
first class, and very proud of him we w^ere.” 

“And still he saw nothing of her,” said Fred. 

“Not till some time after he had been settled in his 
chambers at the Temple. Now, you must know that Gen- 
eral St. Leger, though in most matters a wise man, was 
not by any means so in money matters; and by some un- 
lucky speculation, which was to have doubled his daugh- 
ter’s fortune, managed to lose the whole of it, leaving little 
but his pay.” 

“ Capital !” cried Frederick, “that brings her down to 
him !” 

“So it did,” said his mother, smiling; “but the spec- 
tators did not rejoice quite so heartily as you do. The 
general’s health was failing, and it was hard to think what 
would become of Beatrice; for Lord St. Leger’s family, 
though very kind, were not more congenial then than they 
ai-e now. As soon as all this was pretty well known, Geof- 
frey spoke, and the general, who was very fond of him, 
gave full consent. They meant to wait till it was prudent, 
of course, and were well contented ; but just after it was all 
settled, the general had a sudden seizure and died. Geof- 
frey was with him, and he treated him like a son, saying 
it was his great comfort to know that her happiness was 
in his hands. Poor Beatrice, she went first to the 8t. 
Legers’. stayed with them two or three months, then I 
would have her to be my bridemaid, though ’’—and Mrs. 
Langford tried to smile, while again she strangled a sob- 
bing sigh— “she warned me that her mourning was a 
bad omen. Well, she stayed witli my mother while we 
went abroad, and on our return went with us to be in- 
troduced at Knight Sutton. Everybody was charmed. 
Mrs. Langford and Aunt Roger had expected a fine lady, 
or a blue one, but they soon learned to believe all her 
gayety and all her cleverness a mere calumny, and grand- 


146 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


papa was delighted with her the first moment. How well 
I remember Geoffrey’s coming home and thanking us for 
having managed so well as to make her like one of the 
family, while the truth was that she had fitted herself in, 
and found her place from the first moment. Now came 
a time of grave private conferences. A long engagement, 
which might have been very well if the general had lived, 
was a dreary prospect now that Beatrice was without a 
home ; but then your uncle was but just called to the bar, 
and had next to nothing of his own, present or to come. 
However, he had begun his literary works, and found them 
answer so well, that he believed he could maintain him 
self till briefs came in, and he had the sort of talent which 
gives confidence. He thought, too, that even in the event 
of his death, she would be better off as one of us, than as a 
dependent on the St. Legers; and at last, by talking to us, 
he nearly persuaded himself to believe it would be a very 
prudent thing to marry. It was a harder matter to per 
suade his father, but persuade him he did, and the wedding 
was at Knight Sutton that very summer.” 

“That’s right,” cried Fred, “excellent and glorious! A 
farthing for all the St. Legers put together.” 

“Nevertheless, Fred, in spite of your disdain, we were 
all of opinion that it was a matter of rejoicing that Lord 
St. Leger and Lady Amelia were present, so that no one 
had any reason to say that they disapproved. Moreover, 
lest you should learn imprudence from my story, I would 
also suggest that if your uncle and aunt had not been a 
couple comme il-y-en a pen, it would neither have been ex- 
cellent nor glorious.” 

“ Why, they are very well off,” said Fred; “ he is quite 
at the head of his profession. The first thing a fellow asks 
when he hears my name is, if I belong to Langjford the 
barrister.” 

“Yes, but he never would have been eminent, scarcely 
have had daily bread, if he had not worked fearfully hard, 
so hard that without the bouyant schoolboj’ spirit, which 
can turn from the hardest toil like a child to its play, his 
health could never have stood it.” 

“ But then it has been success and triumph,” said Fred ; 
“ one could work like a galley-slave with encouragement, 
and never feel it drudgery.” 

“ It was not all success at first,” said his mother; “ there 
was hard work, and disappointment, and heavy sorrow 
too; but they knew how to bear it, and to win through 
with it.” 

“ And were they very poor?” asked Henrietta. 

“ Yes; but it was beautiful to see how she accommodated 
herself to it. The house that once looked dingy and deso- 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


147 


late, was very soon pretty and cheerful, and the wirtli- 
schaff so well ordered and economical, that Aunt Roger 
was struck dumb with admiration. I shall not forget Lady 
Susan’s visit the last morning we spent with her in London, 
how amazed she was to find ‘ poor Beatrice ’ looking sn 
bi'ight and like herself, and how little she guessed at her 
morning’s work, the study of shirt making, and the copv 
ing out a review of her husband’s, full of Greek quota 
tions.” 

“Well, the poverty is all over now,” said Henrietta; 
“ but still they live in a very quiet way, considering Aunt 
Geoffrey’s connections and the fortune he has made.” 

“ Who put the notion into your head, my wise daughter?” 
said Mrs. Langford. 

Henrietta blushed, laughed, and mentioned Lady Matilda 
St. Leger, a cousin of her aunt Geoffrey’s of whom she had 
seen something in the course of the last year. 

“ The truth is,” said Mrs. Langford, “that your aunt had 
display and luxury enough in her youth to value it as it de 
serves, and he could not desire it except for her sake. 
They had rather give with a free hand, beyond what any 
one knows or suspects. ” 

“•Ah! I know among other things that he sends Alex 
ander to school,” said Fred. 

“Yes; and the improvements at Knight Sutton," said 
Henrietta, “the school, and all that grandpapa wished but 
could never afford. Well, mamma, if y ou made the match, 
you deserve to be congratulated on your work.” 

“There is nobody like Uncle Geoffrey, I have said, and 
shall always maintain,” said Fred. 

His mother sighed, saying: “I don’t know what we 
should have done without him I” and became silent. Hen- 
rietta saw an expression on her countenance which made 
her unwilling to disturb her, and nothing more was said till 
it was discovered that it was bedtime. 


CHAPTER III. 

“Where is madame?” asked Frederick of his sister, as 
she entered the breakfast-room alone the next morning with 
the key of the tea chest in her hand. 

“A headache,” answered Henrietta, “and a palpita- 
tion !” 

“ A bad one?” 

“Yes, very, and I am afraid it is our fault, Freddy; I 
am convinced it will not do, and we must give it up.” 

“How do you mean? The going to Knight Sutton? 
What has that to do with it? Is it the reviving old recol 
lections that is too much for her?” 


148 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


“Just listen what an effect last evening's conversation 
had upon her. Last night, after I had been asleep a long 
time, I woke up, and there I saw her kneeling before the 
table with her hands over her face. Just then it struck 
one, and soon after she got into bed. I did not let her 
know I was awake, for speaking would only have made 
it worse, but I am sure sne did not sleep all night, and 
this morning has one of her most uncomfortable fits of 
palpitation. She had just fallen asleep, when I looked in 
after dressing, but I do not think she will be fit to come 
down to-day.^’ 

“And do you think it was talking of Uncle and Aunt 
Geoffrey that brought it on?” said Fred, with much con- 
cern; “ yet it did not seem to have much to do with my 
fatlier.” 

“ Oh, but it must,” said Henrietta. “ He must have 
been there all the time mixed up in everything. Queen 
Bee has told me how they were always together when they 
were children.” 

“Ah! perhaps; and I noticed how she spoke about her 
wedding,” said Fred. “Yes, and to compare liow differ- 
ently it has turned out with Aunt Geoffrey and with her, 
after they had been young and happy together. Ye’s, no 
doubt it was he who persuaded the people at Knight Sut- 
ton into letting them marry !” 

“ And their sorrow that she spoke of must have been his 
death,” said Henrietta. “No doubt the going over those 
old times renewed all those thoughts.” 

“ And you think going to Knight Sutton might have the 
same effect. Well, I suppose we must give it up,” said 
Fred, with a sigh. “After all, we can be very happy 
here !” 

“Oh, yes! that we can. It is more on your account than 
mine that I wished it,” said the sister. 

“And I should not have thought so much of it, if I had 
not thought it would be pleasanter for you when I am 
away,” said Fred. 

“And so,” said Henrietta, laughing yet sighing, “we 
agree to persuade each other that we don’t care about it.” 

Fred pju'formed a grimace, and remarked that if Hen- 
rietta continued to make her tea so scalding, there would 
soon be a verdict against her of fratricide; but the obser- 
vation, being intended to conceal certain feelings of disap- 
pointment and heroism, only led to silence. 

After sleeping for some hours, Mrs. Langford awoke re- 
freshed, and got up, but did not leave her room. Fred- 
erick and Henrietta went to take a walk by her desire, as 
she declared that she preferred being alone, and on their 
return they found her lying on the sofa. 


HENRIETTA'^S WISH. 


149 


“ Mamma has boen in mischief,” said Fred. “ She did 
not think herself knocked up enough already, so she has 
been doing it more thoroughly. 

“ O, mamma!” was Henrietta’s reproachful exclama- 
tion, as she looked at her pale face and red, swollen eye- 
lids. 

“ Never mind, my dears,” said she, trying to smile, “I 
shall be better now this is done, and I have it off my 
mind.” They looked at her in anxious interrogation, and 
she smiled outright with lip and eye. “ You will seal that 
letter with a good will, Henrietta,” she said. “It is to 
ask Uncle Geoffrey to make inquiries about the Pleas- 
ance.” 

“ Mammal” and they stood transfixed at a decision be- 
yond their hopes ; then Henrietta exclaimed : 

“ No, no, mamma; it will be too much for you ; you must 
not think of it.” 

“ Yes,” said Fred; “ indeed, we agreed this morning that 
it would be better not. Put it out of your head, mamma, 
and go on here in peace and comfort. I am sure it suits 
you best.” 

“Thank you, thank you, my dear ones,” said she, draw- 
ing them toward her, and fondly kissing them; “ but it is 
all settled, and I am sure it is better for you. It is but a 
dull life for you here.” 

“Oh, no, no. no, dearest mamma; nothing can be dull 
with you I” cried Henrietta, wishing most sincerely to undo 
her own work. “ We are, indeed we are, as happy as the 
day is long. Do not fancy we are discontented ; do not 
think we want a change.” 

Mrs. Langford replied by an arch, though subdued, 
smile. 

“ But we would not have you to do it on our account,” 
said Fred. “ Pray put it out of your head, for we do very 
well here, and it was only a passing fancy. ” 

“You will not talk me out of it, my dears,” said Mrs. 
Langford. “ I know it is right, audit shall be done. It is 
only the making up my mind that was the stY-uggle, and I 
sliall look forward to it as much as either of you, when I 
know it is to be done. Now walk off, my dears, and do not 
let that letter be too late for the post.” 

“ I do not half like it,” said Fred, pausing at the door. 

“ I have not many tears on that score,” said she, smil- 
ing. “ No, do not be uneasy about me, my dear Fred, it 
is my proper place, and I must be happy there. I shall 
like to be near the Hall, and to see all the dear old places 
again.” 

“ Oh, mamma, you cannot talk about them without your 


150 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


voice quivering,” snicl Henrietta. ‘‘You do not know how 
I wish you would give it up!” 

“ Give it up ! I would not for millions,” said Mrs. Lang- 
ford. “ Now go, my dears, and perhaps I shall go to sleep 
again.” 

The spirits of the brother and sister did not just at first 
rise enough for rejoicing over the decision. Henrietta 
would willingly have kept back the letter, but this she 
could not do, and sealing it as if she were doing wrong, 
she sat down to dinner, feeling subdued and remorseful, 
something like a tyrant between the condemnation and 
execution of his victim. But by the time the first course 
was over, and she and Frederick had begun to recollect 
their long-cherished wishes, they made up their minds to 
be happy, and fell into their usual strain of admiration of 
the unknown haven of their hopes and of expectations that 
it would in the end benefit their mother. 

The next morning she was quite in her usual spirits, and 
affairs proceeded in the usual manner; Frederick’s holi- 
days came to an end, and he returned to school with many 
a fond lamentation from the mother and sister, but with 
cheerful auguries from both that the next meeting might 
be at Knight Sutton. 

“Here, Henrietta,” said her mother, as they sat at 
breakfast together a day or two after Fredei ick’s depart- 
ure, turning over to her the letter of which she had first 
broken the seal, while she proceeded to open some others. 
It was Uncle Geoffrey's writing, and Henrietta read 
eagerly : 

“My dear Mary,— I would not write till I could give 
you some positive information about the Pleasance. and 
that could not be done without a conference with Hardy, 
who was not at home. I am heartily glad that you think 
of coming among us again, but still I should like to feel 
certain that it is you that feel equal to it, and not the 
young ones who are set upon the plan. I suppose you will 
indignantly refute the charge, but you know I have never 
trusted you in that matter. However, we are too much the 
gainers to investigate motives closely ; and I cannot but 
believe tliat the effort once over, you would find it a great 
comfort to be among your own people, and in your own 
country. I fully agree with you also in what you say of 
the advantage to Henrietta and Fred. My father is going 
to write, and I must leave him to do justice to his own 
cordiality, and proceed to business.” 

Then came the particulars of freehold and copyhold pur' 
chase or lease, repair or din-epair of which Henrietta knew 
nothing, and cared less; she knew that hei- mamma was 


HENRIETTA 'S WISH. 


151 


considered a great heiress, and trusted to her wealth for 
putting all she pleased in her power ; but it was rather 
alarming to recollect that Uncle Geoffrej^ would con- 
sider it right to make the best terms he could, and that 
the house might be lost to them while they were bargain- 
ing for it. 

“ Oh, mamma, never mind what he says about its being 
dear,” said she; “ I dare say it will not ruin us.” 

“ Not exactly,” said Mrs. Langford, smiling; ‘‘but gen- 
tlemen consider it a disgrace not to make a good bar- 
gain; and Uncle Geoffrey must be allowed to have his own 
way.” 

“Oh, but mamma, suppose some one else should take 
it?” 

“ A village house is not like these summer lodgings, which 
are snapped up before you can look at them,” said Mrs. 
Langford. “I have no fears but that it is to be had.” 
But Henrietta could not help fancying that her mother 
would regard it somewhat as a reprieve, if the bargain 
was to go off independently of any determination of hers. 

She had made up her mind to look cheerfullj^ at the 
scheme, and often talked of it with pleasure, to which the 
cordial and affectionate letters of her father-in-law and the 
rest of the family, conduced not a little. She now fully 

g erceived that it bad only been from forbearance, that tliey 
ad not before urged her return, and as she saw how earn- 
estly it was desired by Mr. and Mrs. Langford, reproached 
herself as for a weakness for not having sooner resolved 
upon her present step. Henrietta’s work was rather to 
keep up her spirits at the prospect than to prevent her from 
changing her purpose, which never altered, respecting a 
return to the neighborhood of Knight Sutton, though 
whether to the house of the tempting name, was a question 
which remained in agitation during the rest of the autumn, 
for as surely as Rome was not built in a day so surely can- 
not a house be bought or sold in a day, especially when a 
clever and cautious lawyer acts for one party. 

Matters thus dragged on, till the space before the Christ 
mas holidays was reckoned by weeks, instead of months, 
and as Mrs. Frederick Langford laughingly said, she 
should be fairly ashamed to meet her boy again at their 
present home. She therefore easily allowed herself to be 
persuaded to accept Mr. Langford’s invitation to take up 
her quarters at the Hall, and look about her a little before 
finally deciding upon the Pleasance. Christmas at Knight 
Sutton Hall had the greatest charms in the eyes of Hen- 
rietta and Frederick ; for many a time had they listened to 
the descriptions given con amove by Beatrice Langford, to 
whom that place had ever been a home, perhaps the more 


159 HENRIETTA'S WISH. 

beloved, because the other half of her life was spent in Lon 
don. 

It was a great disappointment, however, to hear that 
Mrs. Geoffrey Langford was likely to be detained in Lon 
don by the state of health of her aunt, Lady Susan St. 
Leger, whom she did not like to leave, while no other of 
the family was at hand. This was a cruel stroke, but she 
could not bear that her husband should miss his yearly 
holiday, her daughter lose the pleasure of a fortnight with 
Henrietta, or Mr. and Mrs. Langford be deprived of the 
visit of their favorite son; and she therefore arranged to 
go and stay with Lady Susan, while Beatrice and her 
father went as usual to Knight Sutton. 

Mr. Geoffrey Langford offered to escort his sister-in-law 
from Devonshire, but she did not like his holidays to be 
so wasted. She had no merely personal apprehensions, 
and new as railroads were to her, declared herself per- 
fectly willing and able to manage with no companions but 
her daughter and maid, with whom she was to travel to 
his house in London, there to be met in a day or two by 
the two schoolboys, Frederick and his Cousin Alexander, 
and then proceed all together to Knight Sutton. 

Henrietta could scarcely believe that the long-wished-for 
time was really come, packing up actually commencing, 
and that her Avaking would find her under a different roof 
from that which she had never left. She did not know till 
now that she had any attachments to the place she had 
hitherto believed utterly devoid of all interest ; but she 
found she could not bid it farewell without sorrow. There 
was the old boatman with his rough, kindly courtesy, and 
his droll ways of speaking; there was the rocky beach 
where she and her brother had often played on tlie verge 
of the ocean, watching with mj’^steriOus awe or sportive 
delight the ripple of the advancing waves, the glorious sea 
itself, the walks, the woods, the streams, and rocks, wliich 
she now believed, as mamma and Uncle Geoffrey had often 
told her, were more beautiful than anything she* was likely 
to find in Sus.sex. Other scenes there were, connected 
with her grandmother, which she grieved much at parting 
with, but she shunned talking over her regrets, lest she 
should agitate her mother, whom she watched with great 
anxiety. 

She was glad that so much business was on her hands 
as to leave little time for dwelling on her feelings, to 
which she attributed the calm quietness with which she 
went through the few trying days that immediately pre- 
ceded their departure. Henrietta felt this constant em- 
ployment so great a relief to hf*r own spirits, that she was 
sorry on her own account, as well as her mother s, when 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


153 


every possible order liad been given, every box packed, 
and nothing was to be done but to sit opposite to each 
otlier, on each side of the fii'e, in the idleness wliich pre- 
cedes candle-liglit. Her mother leaned back in silence, 
and she watched her with an anxious gaze. She feared to 
say anything of sympathy with what she supposed her 
feeling, lest she would make her weep. An indifferent 
speech would be out of place even if Henrietta herself 
could have made it, and yet to remain silent was to allow 
melancholy thoughts to prey upon her. So thought the 
daughter, longing at the same time that her persuasions 
were all unsaid. 

“ Come here, my dear child,” said her mother, presently, 
and Henrietta almost started at the calmness of the voice, 
and the serenity of the tranquil countenance. Slie crossed 
to her mother, and sat down on a low footstool, leaning 
against her. “You are very much afraid for me,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Langford, as she remarked upon the anxious 
expression of her face, far different from her own, “but 
you need not fear, it is all well with me; it would be wrong 
not to be thankful for those who are not really lost to me 
as for those who were given to me here.” 

All Henrietta’s consideration for her mother could not 
prevent lier from bursting into tears. 

“Oh, mamma, I did not know it would be so like going 
away from dear grandmamma.” 

“ Try to feel the truth, my dear, that our being near to 
her depends on whether we are in our duty or not.” 

“Yes, yes, but this place is so full of her! I do so love 
it ! I did not know it till now 1” 

“Yes, we must always love it, my- dear child; but we 
are going to our home, Henrietta, to your father's home 
in life and death, and it must be good for us to be there, 
with your grandfather, who has wished for us. Knight 
Sutton is our true home, the one where it is right for us 
to be.” 

Henrietta still wept bitterly, and strange it was that it 
should be she who stood in need of consolation for the 
fulfillment of her own most ardent wish, and from the 
very person to whom it was the greatest trial. It was not, 
however, self-reproach that caused her tears. Her moth- 
er’s calmness prevented her from having any such mis- 
giving. But attachment to the place she was about to 
leave, and the recollections, which she accused herself of 
having slighted, had stirred her feelings. Her mother, 
who had made up her mind to do what was right, found 
strength and peace at the moment of trial, when the way- 
ward and untrained spirits of the daughter gave way. 
Not that she blamed Henrietta, she was rather gratified to 


154 


1 1 t:XRI ETTA'S WISH. 


find that she was so much attached to her home and her 
grandmotlier, and felt so much with her; and after she 
had succeeded in some degree in restoring her to com- 
posure, they talked long and earnestly over old times and 
deeper feelings. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The journey to London was prosperously performed, 
and Mrs. Frederick Langford was not over-fatigued when 
she arrived at Uncle Geoffrey’s house at Westminster. 
The cordiality of their greeting may be imagined, as a visit 
from Henrietta had been one of the favorite visions of 
her cousin Beatrice, through her whole life; and the two 
girls were soon deep in the delights of a conversation in 
which sense and nonsense had an equal share. 

The next day was spent by the two Mrs. Langfords in 
quiet together, while Henrietta was conducted through a 
rapid wliirl of sight-seeing by Beatrice and Uncle Geoffrey, 
the latter of whom, to his niece's great amazement, pro- 
fes.sed to find almost as much novelty in the sights as she 
did. A short December day, though not what they would 
have chosen, had this advantage, that the victim could not 
be as completely fagged and worn out as in a summer's 
day, and Henrietta was still fresh and in high spirits when 
they drove home and found to their delight tbat the two 
schoolboys had already arrived. 

Beatrice met both alike as old friends and almost broth- 
ers, but Alexander, though returning her greeting with 
equal cordiality, looked shyly at the new aunt and cousin, 
and, as Henrietta suspected, wished them elsewhere. She 
had heard much of him from Beatrice, and knew that her 
brother regarded him as a formidable rival ; and she was 
therefore surprised to see that his broad, honest face ex- 
pressed more good-humor than intellect, and his manners 
wanted polish. He was tolerably well-featured, witli light 
eyes and dark hair, and though half a year older than his 
cousin, was much shorter— more perhaps in appearance 
than reality, from the breadth and squareness of his 
shoulders, and from not carrying himself well. 

Alexander was (as ought previously to have been re- 
corded), the third son of Mr. Roger Langford, the heir of 
Knight Sutton, at present living at Sutton Leigh, a small 
house on his father's estate, busied with farming, sporting, 
and parish business; while his active wife contrived to 
make a narrow income feed, clothe, and at least half -edu- 
cate their endless tribe of boys. Roger, the eldest, was at 
sea: Frederick, the second, in India; and Alexander owed 
his more learned education to Uncle Geoffrey, who had been 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


155 


well recompensed by his industry and good conduct. In- 
deed his attainments had always been so superior to those 
of his brothers that he might have been considered as a 
prodigy, had not his Cousin Fredei ick been always one step 
before him. 

Fred had greater talent, and had been much better taught 
at home, so that on first going to school, he took and kent 
the higher place; but this was but a small advantage in 
his eyes, compared with what he had to endure out of 
school during his first half year. Unused to any training 
or companionship save of womankind, he was disconsolate, 
bewildered, derided in tliat new rude world ; while Alex, 
accustomed to fight his way among rude brothers, in- 
stantly found his level, and even extended a protecting 
liand to his cousin, who requited it with little gratitude. 
Soon overcoming his effeminate habits, he grew expert and 
dexterous, and was equal to Alex in all but main bodily 
strength ; but the spirit of rivalry once excited, had never 
died away, and with a real frhuidship and esteem for each 
other, their names or rather their nicknames had almost 
become party words among their school-fellows. 

Nor was it probable that this competition would be for- 
gotten on this first occasion of spending their holidays to- 
gether. Fred felt himself open to that most galling ac- 
cusation of want of manliness, on account at once of his 
ignorance of country sports, and of his knowledge of ac- 
complishments; but he did not guess at the feeling which 
made Alexander on his side regard those very accomplish- 
ments with a feeling which, if it were not jealousy, was at 
least very nearly akin to it. 

Beatrice Langford had not the slightest claim to beauty. 
She vvas very little, and so thin that her papa did her no 
injustice when he called her “skin and bones;" but her 
thin brown face, with the aid of a pair of very large, deep 
Italian-looking eyes, was so full of brilliant expression, and 
showed such changes of feeling from sad to gay, from sub- 
lime to ridiculous, that no one could have wished one feat- 
ure otherwise. And if instead of being “ like the diamond 
bright,’"' they had been “dull as lead,” it would have been 
little matter to Alex. Beatrice had been, she was still, his 
friend, his own cousin, more than what he could believe a 
sistf^r to be if he had one— in short his own little Queen 
Bee. He had had a monopoly of her; she had trained him 
in all the civilization which he possessed, and it was with 
considerable mortification that he tliought himself lowered 
in her eyes by comparison with his old rival, as old afriend 
of hers, with the same claim to cousinly affection; and in 
stead of understanding only what she had taught him. 


150 


lIEMilETTA'S WISH. 


familiar with the tastes and pursuits on which she set 
perhaps too great a value. 

Fred did not care nearly as much for Beatrice’s prefer - 
ence; it might be that he took it as a matter of course, or, 
perhaps, that having a sister of his own, he did not need 
her sympathy ; but still it was a point on which he was likely 
to be sensitive, and thus her favor was likely to be secretly 
quite as much a matter of competition as their school 
studies and pastimes. 

For instance, dinner was over, and Henrietta was ad- 
miring some choice books of prints, such luxuries as 
Uncle Geoffrey now afforded himself, and which his wife 
and daughter greatly preferred to the more costly sWle 
of living which some people thought befitted them. She 
called to her brother who was standing by the fire, “ Fred, 
do come and look at this beautiful Albert Durer, of Sin- 
tram.” 

He hesitated, doubting whether Alexander would scorn 
him for an acquaintance with Albert Durer, but Beatrice 
added, “Yes, it was an old promise that I would show it 
to you. There now, look, admire, or be pronounced insen- 
sible.” 

“A wonderful old fellow was that Albert,” said Fred, 
looking and forgetting his foolish false shame in the pleas- 
ure of admiration. “ Yes; O, how wondrously the expres- 
sion on death’s face changes as it does in the story ! How 
easy it is to see how Fouque must have built it up ! Have 
you seen it, mamma?” 

His mother came to admire. Another print was pro- 
duced, and another, and Fred and Beatrice were eagerly 
studying the elaborate engravings of the old German, 
when Alex, annoyed at finding her too much engrossed 
to have a word for him, came to share their occupa- 
tion, and took up one of the prints with no practiced 
hand. 

“ Take care, Alex, take care!” cried Beatrice, in a sort of 
excruciated tone; “ don’t you see what a pinch you are giv- 
ing it? Only the initiated ought to handle a print; there 
is a pattern for you,’’ pointing to Fred. 

She cut right and left; both looked annoyed, and re- 
treated from the table; Fred thinking how Alex must 
look down on fingers which possessed any tenderness; 
Alex provoked at once and pained. Queen Bee’s black 
eyes perceived their power, and gave a flash of laughing 
triumph. 

But Beatrice was not quite in her usual high spirits, 
for she was very sorry to leave her mother; and when 
they went up stairs for the night, she stood long over 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 157 

the fire talking to her, and listening to certain parting cau- 
tions. 

“How I wish you could have come, mamma! I am 
so sure that grandmamma, in her kindness, will tease 
Aunt Mary to death, You are the only person who can 
guard her without affronting grandmamma. Now I ” 

“ Had better let it alone,” rejoined Mrs. Geoffrey Lang- 
ford. “You will do more harm than by letting things 
take their course. Remember, too, that Aunt Mary was at 
home there long before you or I knew the place.” 

“ Oh, if that tiresome Aunt Amelia would but have had 
some consideration ! To go out of town and leave Aunt 
Susan on our hands just when we always go home!” 

“We have lamented that often enough,” said her 
mother, smiling. “It is unlucky, but it cannot be too 
often repeated, that wills and wishes must sometimes 
bend.” 

“You say that for me, mamma,” said Beatrice. “You 
think grandmamma and I have too much will for each 
other.” 

“ If you are conscious of that. Bee, I hope that you will 
bend that willful will of yours.” 

“ I hope I shall,” said Beatrice, “but Well, I must 

go to bed. Good-night, mamma.” 

And Mrs. Geoffrey Langford looked after her daughter 
anxiously, but she well knew that Beatrice knew her be- 
setting fault, and she trusted to the many fervent resolu- 
tions she had made against it. 

The next morning the party bade adieu to Mrs. Geoffrey 
Langford, and set out on their journey to Knight Sutton. 
They filled a whole railroad carriage, and were a very 
cheerful party. Alexander and Beatrice sat opposite to 
each other, talking over Knight Sutton delights with ani- 
mation, Beatrice ever and anon turning to her other cous- 
ins with explanations, or referring to her papa^ who was 
reading the newspaper and talking to Mrs. Frederick 
Langford. 

The day was not long enough for all the talk of the cous- 
ins, and the early winter twilight came on before their 
conversation was exhausted, or they had reached the Al- 
lonfield station. 

“ Here we are!” exclaimed Beatrice, as the train stop- 
ped, and at the same moment a loud voice called out: 
“ All right! where are you, Alex?” upon which Alexander 
tumbled across Henrietta to feel for the handle of the car- 
riage door, replying: “ Here, old fellow, let us out. Have 
you brought Dumpling?” And Uncle Geoffrey and Bea- 
trice exclaimed: “ How d’ye do, Carey?” 

When Alexander had succeeded in making his exit. Hen- 


158 


HENRIETTA'S WISH 


rietta beheld liim shaking hands with a figure not quite his 
own height, and in its rough great-coat, not unlike a small 
species of bear. Uncle Geoffrey and Fred handed out the 
ladies, and sought their appurtenances in the dark, and 
jHenrietta began to give Alex credit for a portion of that 
which maketh man, when he shoved his brother, admon- 
ishing him that there was Aunt Mary, upon which Carey 
advanced, much encumbered with sheepish shyness, pre- 
sented a great, rough driving- glove, and shortly and 
bluntly replied to the soft tDnes which kindly greeted him, 
and inquired for all at home. 

“Is the Hall carriage come?” asked Alex, and, receiving 
a gruff affirmative, added: “then. Aunt Mary, you had 
better come to it while Uncle Geoffrey looks after the lug- 
gage,” offered his arm with tolerable courtes3’, and con- 
ducted her to the carriage. “ There,” said he; “Carey has 
driven in in our gig, and I suppose Fred and I had better 
go back with him.” 

“ Is the horse steady?” asked his aunt, anxiously. 

“ Dumple? To be sure! Never does wrong! Do you, 
old fellow?” said Alex, patting his old friend. 

“ And no lamps?” 

“ Oh, we know the way blindfold, and you might cross 
Sutton Heath a dozen times without meeting anything but 
a wheelbarrow full of peat.” 

“ And how is the road now? It used to be very bad in 
my time.” 

“Lots of ruts,” muttered Carey to his brother, who in 
terp reted it : . 

“ A few ruts this winter, but Dumpling knows all the bad 
places.” 

By this time Uncle Geoffrey came up, and instantly per 
ceiving the state of things, said: “ I say, Freddy, do you 
mind changing places with me? I should like to have a 
peep at Uncle Roger before going up to the house, and then 
Dumpling’s feelings won’t be hurt by passing the turn tq 
Sutton Leigh.” 

Fred could not object, and his mother rejoiced in the 
belief that Uncle Geoffrey would take the reins, nor did 
Beatrice undeceive her, though, as the vehicle rattled past 
the carriage at full speed, she saw Alexander’s own flourish 
of the whip, and knew that her papa was letting the boys 
have their own way. She had been rather depressed in 
the morning on leaving her mother, but as she came 
nearer home her spirits mounted, and she was almost 
wild with glee. “ Aunt Mary, do you know where you 
are?” 

“ On Sutton Heath, I presume, from the absence of land 
marks. ” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


159 


“Yes, that we are. You dear old place, how d’ye do? 
You beginning of home ! I don’t know when it is best com 
ing to you: on a summer’s evening, all glowing with pur- 
ple heath, or a frosty, starlight night like this. There is 
the Sutton Leigh turn ! Hurrah ! only a mile further to the 
gate.” 

“ Where I used to go to meet the boys coming home from 
school,” said her aunt, in a low tone of deep feeling. But 
she would not sadden their blithe young hearts, and added 
cheerfully. “Just the same as ever, I see ; how well I know 
the outline of the bank there!” 

“Ay, it is your fatherland, too. Aunt Mary! Is there 
not something inspiring in the very air? Come, Fred, can't 
you get up a little enthusiasm?” 

“Oceans, without getting it up,” replied Fred. “I 
never was more rejoiced in my whole life,” and he began 
to hum “Domum.” 

“Sing it, sing it; let us join in chorus as homage to 
Knight Sutton,” cried Henrietta. 

And the voices began “Domum, Domum, dulce 
Domum even Aunt Mary herself caught the feelings of 
her young companions, felt herself coming to her own be 
loved home and parents, half forgot how changed was her 
situation, and threw herself into the delight of returning. 

“Now, Fred,” said Henrietta, “let us try those verses 
that you found a tune for, that begin ‘ What is home. ’ ” 

This also was sung, and by the time it was finished they 
had reached a gate leading into a long drive through dark 
beech woods. 

“ This is the beautiful wood of which I have often told 
you, Henrietta,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford. 

“ The wood with glades like cathedral aisles,” said Hen 
rietta. “ O, how delightful it will be to see it come out in 
leaf !” 

“Which I have never seen,” said Beatrice. “I tell 
papa he has made his fortune, and ought to retire, and ho 
says he is too young for it. ” 

“ In which I fully agree with him,” said her aunt. “ I 
should not like to see him with nothing to do.” 

“ O mamma. Uncle Geoffrey would never be anywhere 
with nothing to do,” said Henrietta. 

“No,” said her mother, “ but people are always happier 
with work made for them, than with what they make for 
themselves. Besides, Uncle Geoffrey has too much talent 
to be spared.” 

“ Ay,” said Fred, “ I wondered to hear you so devoid of 
ambition, little Busy Bee.” 

“ It is only Knight Sutton and thinking of May flowers 


160 


HENRIETTAS WISH 


that makes me so,” said Beatrice. I believe, after all, 

1 should break my heart if papa did retire without ” 

“ V/ithout what, Bee?” 

“Being Lord Chancellor, I suppose,” said Henrietta, 
very seriously. “ I am sure I should.” 

‘ ‘ His being in Parliament will content me for the pres- 
ent,” said Beatrice, “for I have been told too often that 
high principles don’t rise in the world, to expect any more. 
We can be just as proud of him as if he was.” 

“ You are in a wdndrously humble and philosophic mood, 
Queen Bee,” said Henrietta; “but where are we now?” 
added she, as a gate swung back. 

“Coming into the paddock,” said Beatrice; “ don’t you 
seethe lights in the house? There, that is the drawing 
room window to the right, and that large one the great 
hall window. Then up stairs, don’t you see that red fire- 
light? That is the south room, which Aunt Mary will be 
sure to have.” 

Henrietta did not answer, for there was something that 
subdued her in the nervous pressure of her mother’s hand. 
The carriage stopped at the door, whence streamed forth 
light, dazzling to eyes long accustomed to darkness; but 
in the midst stood a figure which Henrietta could not but 
have recognized in an instant, even had not old Mr. Lang 
ford paid more than one visit to Rocksand. Tall, thin, 
unbent, with high bald forehead, clear eye, and long, 
snowy hair; there he was, lifting rather than handing his 
daughter-in-law from the carriage, and fondly kissing her 
brow; then he hastily greeted the other occupants of the 
carriage, while she received the kiss of Mrs. Langford. 

They were now in the hall, and turning again to his 
daughter-in-law, he gave her his arm, and led her into the 
drawing-room, where he once more embraced her, saying, 
“ Bless you, my own dear Mary !” She clung to him for a 
moment as if she longed to weep with him, but recovering 
herself in an instant, she gave her attention to Mrs. Lang- 
ford, who was trying to administer to her comfort with a 
degree of bustle and activity which suited well with the 
alertness of her small figure and the vivacity of the black 
eyes which still preserved their brightness, though her 
hair was perfectly white. “ Well, Mary, my dear, I hope 
you are not tired. You had better sit down and take off 
your furs, or will you go to your room? But where is 
Geoffrey?” 

“ He went with Alex and Carey, round by Sutton Leigh,” 
said Beatrice. 

“Ha! ha! my little queen, are you there?” said grand- 
papa, holding out his arms to her. “And,” added he, “is 
not this your first introduction to the twins, grandmamma? 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


IGI 

Why, you are grown as fine a pair as I would wish to see 
on a summer’s day. Last time I saw you I could hardly 
tell you apart, when you both wore straw hats and white 
trousers. No mistake now, though. Well, I am right 
glad to have you here.” 

“Won’t you take off some of your wraps, Mary?” pro- 
ceeded Mrs. Langford, and her daughter-in-law, with a 
soft “ Thank you,” passively obeyed. “And you, too, my 
dear,” she added to Henrietta. 

“Off with that bonnet, Miss Henrietta,” proceeded 
grandpapa. “Let me see whether you are as like your 
brother as ever. He has your own face, Mary.” 

“ Do not you think his forehead like ” and she looked 

to the end of the room where hung the portraits of two 
young children, the brothers Geoffrey and Frederick. 
Henrietta had often longed to see it, but now she could at 
tend to nothing but her mamma. 

“ Like poor dear Frederick?” said grandmamma. “ Well, 
I can’t judge by firelight, you know, my dear; but I should 
say they were both your very image.” 

“ You can’t be the image of any one I should like bet 
ter,” said Mr. Langford, turning to them cheerfully, and 
taking Henrietta’s hand. “ I wish nothing better than 
find you the image of your mamma inside and out.” 

“Ah, there’s Geoffrey !” cried Mrs. Langford, springing 
up and almost running to meet him.” 

“Well, Geoffrey, how d’ye do?” added his father with 
an indescribable tone and look of heartfelt delight. “ Left 
all your cares behind you?” 

“ Left my wife behind me,” said Uncle Geoffrey, making 
a rueful face. 

“ Ay, it is a sad business that poor Beatrice cannot 
come,” said both the old people; “but how is poor Lady 
Susan?” 

“ As usual, only too nervous to be left with none of the 
family at hand. Well. Mary, you look tired.” 

Overcome, Uncle Geoffrey would have said, but he 
thought t.he other accusation would answer the same purpose 
and attract less attention, and it succeeded, for Mrs. Lang- 
ford proposed to take her up stairs. Henrietta thought 
that Beatrice would have offered to save her the trouble, 
but this would not have been at all according to the habits 
of grandmamma or granddaughter, and Mrs. Langford 
briskly led the way to a large cheerful-looking room, talk 
ing all the time and saying she supposed Henrietta would 
like to be with her mamma. She nodded to their maid, 
who was waiting there, and gave her a kindly greeting, 
stirred the already bright fire into a blaze, and returning 
to her daughter in-law who was standing like one in a 


BKNRIETT.VS WISH. 

dream, she gave her a fond kiss, saying : ‘ ‘ There, Mary, I 
thought you vould like to be here.” 

“ Thank you, thank you, you are always kind.” 

“There now, Mary, don’t let yourself be overcome. You 
would not bring him back again, I know. Come, lie down 
and rest. There — that is right — and don’t think of coming 
down-stairs. You think your mamma had better not, don’t 
you?” 

“ Much better not, thank you, grandmamma,” said Hen- 
rietta, as she assisted in settling her mother on the sofa. 
“She is tired and overcome now, but she will be herself 
after a rest. ’ ’ 

“ And ask for anything you like, my dear. A glass of 
wine, or cup of coffee; Judith will get you one in a mo- 
ment. Won’t you have a cup of coffee, Mary, my dear?” 

“Thank you, no, thank you,” said Mrs. Frederick Lang- 
ford, raising herself. “ Indeed I am sorry— it is very fool- 
ish.” Here the choking sob came again, and she was 
forced to lie down. Grandmamma stood by, warming a 
shawl to throw over her, and pit^ung her in audible whis- 
pers. “Poor thing, poor thing! it is very sad for her. 
There! a pillow, my dear? ITl fetch one out of my room. 
No? Is her head high enougli? Some sal- volatile? Yes. 
Mary, would you not like some sal- volatile?” 

And away she went in search of it, while Henrietta, ex- 
cessively distressed, knelt by her mother, who, throwing 
her arms round her neck, wept freely for some moments, 
then laid her head on the cushions again, saying, “I did 
not think I was so weak.’' 

‘ ‘ Dearest mamma, ’ ’ said Henrietta, kissing her and feel- 
ing very guilty. 

^‘If I have not distressed grandmamma!” said her 
mother, anxiously. “No, never mind me,^my dear, it was 
fatigue and ’ ’ 

Still she could not finish, so painfully did the familiar 
voices, the unchanged furniture, recall both her happy 
childhood and the bridal days when she had last entered 
the house, that it seemed as it were a new thing, a fresh 
shock to miss the tone that was never to be heard there 
again. Why should all around be the sarpe, when all w ithin 
was altered? But it had been only the first few moments 
that had overwhelmed her, and the sound of Mrs. Lang- 
ford’s returning footsteps recalled her habit of self-control; 
she thanked her, held out her quivering hand, drank the 
sal volatile, pronounced herself much better, and asked 
])ardoii for having given so much trouble. Mrs. Langford 
had tears in her eyes as she answered. 

“Trouble? my dear child, no such thing! I only wish I 
could see you better. No doubt it is too much for you, 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 163 

this coining home the hrst liirie; but then you know poor 
Fred is gone to a better. Ah » well, I see you can’t bear to 
speak of him, and perhaps after all quiet is tlie best thing. 
Don’t let your mamma think of dressing and coining down, 
my dear. ’ ’ 

There was a little combat on this point, but it ended in 
Mrs. Frederick Langford yielding, and agreeing to remain 
up- stairs. Grandmamma would have waited to propose to 
her each of the dishes that were to appear at table, and 
hear which she thought would suit her taste; but very 
fortunately, as Henrietta thought, a bell rang at that 
moment, which she pronounced to be “the half hour bell,” 
and she hastened away, telling her granddaughter that 
dinner would be ready at half-past five, and calling the 
maid outside the door to give her full directions where to 
procure anything that her mistress might want. 

“ Dear grandmamma! just like herself!” said Mrs. Fred- 
erick Langford. “But Henrietta, my dear,” she added, 
with some alarm, “make haste and dress; you must never 
be too late in this house!” 

Henrietta was not much accustomed to. dress to a mo- 
ment, and she was too anxious about her mamma to make 
speed with her whole will, and her hair was in no state of 
forwardness when the dinner bell rang, causing her 
mamma to start and hasten her with an eager, almost 
alarmed manner. “You don’t know how your grand- 
mamma dislikes being kept waiting,” she said. 

At last she was ready and running down, found all the 
rest assembled, evidently waiting for her. Frederick, 
looking anxious, met her at the door to receive her as- 
surances that their mother was better; the rest inquired, 
and her apologies were cut short by grandmamma calling 
them to eat her turkey before it grew cold. The spirits of 
all the party were perhaps damped by Mrs. Frederick 
Langford’s absence and its cause, for the dinner was not 
a very lively one, nor the conversation very amusing to 
Henrietta and Frederick, as it was chiefly on the news of 
the country neighborhood, in which Uncle Geoffrey showed 
much interest. 

As soon as she was released from the dining-rQom, Henri- 
etta ran up to her mamma, whom she found refreshed and 
composed. “ But, oh, mamma, is this a good thing for 
you?” said Henrietta, looking at the red case containing 
her father’s miniature, which had evidently been only just 
closed on her entrance, 

“ The very best thing for me, dearest,” was the answer 
HOW given in her own calm tones. “ It does truly make 
me happier than anything else. No, don’t look doubtful. 


164 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


my Henrietta; if it were repining it might hurt me, but I 
trust it is not.” 

” And does this really comfort you, mamma?” said Hen- 
rietta, as she pressed the spring, and gazed thoughtfully on 
the portrait. ” O, 1 cannot fancy that! the more I think, 
the more I try to realize what it might have been, think 
M^hat Uncle Geoffrey is to Beatrice, till sometimes, O 
mamma, I feel quite rebellious!” 

” You will be better disciplined in time, my poor child,” 
said her mother, sadly. “As your grandmamma said, 
who could be so selfish as to wish him here?” 

“ And can you bear to say so, mamma?” 

She clasped her hands and looked up, and Henrietta 
feared she had gone too far. Both were silent for some 
little time, until at last the daughter timidly asked ; ‘ ‘ And 
was this your old room, mamma?” 

“ Yes; look in that shelf in the corner, there are all our 
old childish books. Bring that one,” she added, as Hen 
rietta took one out, and opening it, she showed in the fly 
leaf the well -written “ F. H. Langford” with the giver's 
name; and below in round hand, scrawled all over the 

E ager “Mary Vivian, the gift of her Cousin Fred.” “I 
elieve that you may find that in almost all of them,” said 
she. “I am glad they have been spared from the chil 
dren at Sutton Leigh. Will you bring me a few more to 
look over, before you go down again to grandmamma?” 

Henrietta did not like to leave her, and lingered while 
she made a selection for her among the books, and from 
that fell into another talk, in which they were interrupted 
by a knock at the door, and the entrance of Mrs. Langford 
herself. She sat a little time, and asked of health, 
strength, and diet until she bustled off again to see if there 
was a good fire in Geoffrey’s room, telling Henrietta that 
tea would soon be ready. 

Henrietta’s ideas of grandmammas were formed on the 
placid Mrs. Vivian, naturally rather indolent, and latterly 
very infirm, although considerably younger than Mrs. 
Langford; and she stood looking after her in speechless 
amazement, her mamma laughing at her wonder. “ But, 
my dear child,” she said, “I beg you will go down. It 
will never do to have you staying up here all the even- 
ing.” 

Henrietta was really going this time, when as she opened 
the door, she was stopped by a new visitor. This was an 
elderly, respectable-looking maid -servant, old Judith, whose 
name was well known to her. She had been nui-sery-maid 
at Knight Sutton at the time “ Miss Mary ” arri\’ed from 
India, and was now what in a more modernized family 
would have been called ladies' -maid or housekeeper, but 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


165 


here was a nondescript office, if anything, upper house- 
maid. How she was loved and respected is known to all 
who are happy enough to possess a “Judith.” 

“ I beg your pardon, miss,” said she, as Henrietta opened 
the door just before her, and Mrs. Frederick Langford, on 
hearing her voice, called out, “Oh, Judith! is that you? I 
was in hopes you were coming to see me.” 

She advanced with a courtesy,' at the same time affection 
ately taking the thin white hand stretched out to her. “ I 
hbpe you are better, ma’am. It is something like old times 
to have you here again.” 

“ Indeed I am very glad to be here, Judith,” was the an 
swer, and very glad to see you looking like your own dear 
self. ’ ’ 

“Ah! Miss Mary; I beg your pardon, ma’am; I wish I 
could see you looking better.” 

“I shall, I hope, to-morrow, thank you, Judith. But 
you have not been introduced to Henrietta there.” 

“ But I have often heard of you, Judith,” said Henrietta, 
cordially holding out her hand. Judith took it, and looked 
at her with affectionate earnestness. “Sure enough, 
miss,” said she, “ as missus says, you are the very picture 
of your mamma when she went away ; but I think I see a 
look of poor Master Frederick too.” 

“ Have you seen my brother, Judith!” asked Henrietta, 
fearing a second discussion on likenesses. 

“ Yes, Miss Henrietta; I was coming down from missus’ 
room, when Mr. Geoffrey stopped me to ask how I did, 
and he said, ‘ Here’s a new acquaintance for you, Judith,’ 
and there was Master Frederick. I should have known 
him anywhere, and he spoke so cheerful and pleasant. A 
fine young gentleman he is, to be sure.” 

“ Why, we must be like your grandchildren !” said Hen- 
rietta; “ but oh! here comes Fred.” 

And Judith discreetly retreated as Fred entered bearing 
a summons to his sister to come down to tea, saying that 
he could scarcely prevail on grandmamma to let him take 
the message instead of coming herself. 

They found Queen Bee perched upon the arm of her 
grandpapa’s chair, with one hand holding by his collar. 
She had been coaxing him to say Henrietta was the pretti- 
est girl he ever saw, and he was teasing her by declaring 
he should never see anything like Aunt Mary in her girlish 
days. Then he called up Henrietta and Fred, and asked 
them about their home doings, showing so distinct a 
knowledge of them, thrit they laughed and stood amazed. 
“Ah,” said grandpapa, “you forgot that I had a Queen 
Bee to enlighten me. We have plenty to tell each other, 


HENPJETTAS ]VTSH. 


m 


when we go buzzing over the plowed fields together on ii 
sunny morning, haven’t we, Busy, Busy Bee?” 

Here grandmamma summoned them all to tea. She 
liked every 'one to sit round the table and put away work 
and book, as, for a regular meal, it was rather a long one. 
Then, when all was over, grandpapa called out, “Come, 
young ladies, I’ve been wearying for a tune these three 
months. I hope you are not too tired to give us one,” 

“Oh, no, no, grandpapa’” cried Beatrice; “but you 
must hear Henrietta. It is a great shame of her to play 
so much better than I do, with all my London masters 
too. ’ ’ 

And in music the greater part of the evening passed 
away. Beatrice came to her aunt’s room to wish her good 
night, and to hear Henrietta’s opinions, which were of 
great delight and still greater wonder— grandmamma so 
excessively kind, and grandpapa, oh, he was a grandpapa 
to be proud of ! 


CHAPTER V. 

It was an agreeable surprise to Henrietta that her 
mother waked free from headache, very cheerful, and feel 
ing quite able to get up to breakfast. The room looked 
very bright and pleasant by the first morning light that 
shone upon the intricate frostwork on the window, and 
Henrietta, as usual, was too much lost in gazing at the 
branches of the elms and the last year’s rooks’ nests, to 
make the most of her time * so that the bell for prayers 
rang long before she was ready. Her mamma would not 
leave her, and remained to help her. Just as they were 
going down at last, they met Mrs. Langford on her way up 
with inquiries for poor Mary. She would have almost been 
better pleased with a slight indisposition than with daw 
dling; but she kindly accepted Henrietta’s apologies, and 
there was one exclamation of joy from all the assembled 
party at Mrs. Frederick Langford’s unhoped-for entrance. 

“Geoffrey, my dear,” began Mrs. Langford, as soon as 
the greetings and congratulations were over, ‘ ‘ will you see 
what is the matter with the lock of this tea-chest? — it has 
been out of order these three weeks, and I thought you 
could set it to rights. ’ ’ 

While Uncle Geoffrey was pronouncing on its complaints 
Atkins, the old servant, put in his head. 

“If you please, sir, Thomas Parker would be glad to 
speak to Mr. Geoffrey about his son on the railway.” 

Away went Mr. Geoffrey to the lower regions, where 
Thomas Parker awaited him, and as soon as he returned 
was addressed by his father. “Geoffrey, I put those 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


1(37 


papers on the table in the study, if you will look over them 
when you have time, and tell me what you think of that 
turnpike trust.” 

A few moments after the door was thrown wide open, 
and in burst three boys, shouting with one voice. “ Uncle 
Geoffrey, Uncle Geoffrey, you must come and see which of 
Vixen’s puppies are to be saved. ” 

“Hush, hush, you rogues, hush!” was Uncle Geoffrey s 
answer; “don’t you know that you are come into civil 
ized society? Aunt Mary never saw such wild men of the 
woods.” 

“ All crazy at the sight of Uncle Geoffrey,’' said grand • 
mamma.” 

“ Ah, he spoils you all. But come here, Johnny, come and 
speak to your aunt. There, this is Johnny, and here are 
Richard and Willie,” she added, as they came up and 
awkwardly gave their hands to their aunt and cousins ' 

Henrietta was almost bewildered by seeing so many 
likenesses of Alexander. “ How shall I ever know them 
apart?” said she to Beatrice. 

“Like grandmamma’s nest of teacups, all alike, only 
each one size bdow another,” said Beatrice. “ However, 
I don’t require you to learn them all at once; only to know 
Alex and Willie from the rest. Here, Willie, have you 
nothing to say to me? How are the rabbits?” 

Willie, a nice-looking boy of nine or ten years old, of 
rather slighter make than his brothers, and with darker 
eyes and hair, came to (Dueen Bee’s side, as if he W('re very 
glad to see her, and only slightly discomposed by Heni i 
etta’s neighborhood. 

John gave the information that papa and Alex were just 
behind, and in another minute they made their appear- 
ance. “ Good -morning, sir; good morning, ma’am,” were 
Uncle Roger’s greetings, as he came in. “Ah, Mary, how 
d'ye do? glad to see you here at last; hope you are better 
Ah, good-morning, good morning,” as he quickly shook 
hands with the younger ones. “ Good-morning, Geoffrey , 
I told Martin to take the new drill into the out field, for I 
want your opinion whether it is worth keeping.*’ 

And thereupon the three gentlemen began a learned dis 
cussion on drills, during which Henrietta studied hrr 
uncle. She was at first surprised to see him look so young 
—younger, she thought, than Uncle Geoffrey ; but in a mo- 
ment or two slie changed her mind, for though mental 
labor had thinned and grizzled Uncle Geoffrey's hair, paled 
his cheek, and traced lines of thought on his broad, high 
bi’ow, it had not quenched the light that beamed in his 
eyes, nor subdued the joyous merriment that often played 
over his countenance, according with the slender, active 


168 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


figure that might have belonged to a mere boy. Uncle 
Roger was taller, and much more robust and broad ; his 
hair still untouched with gray, his face ruddy brown, and 
his features full of good nature, but rather heavy. In his 
plaid shooting- coat and high gaiters, as he stood by the 
fire, he looked the model of a country squire; but there 
was an indescriioable family likeness, and something of the 
same form about the nose and lip, which recalled to Hen- 
rietta the face she loved so well in Uncle Geoffrey. 

The drill discussion was not concluded when Mrs. Lang- 
ford gave the signal for the ladies to leave the breakfast 
table. Henrietta ran up-stairs for her mother’s work, and 
came down again laughing. “I am sure, Queenie,” said 
she, “that your papa chose his trade rightly. He may 
well be called a great counsel. Besides all the opinions 
asked of him at breakfast, I have just come across a con- 
sultation on the stairs between him and Judith about— 
what was it about? — some money in a savings’ bank.” 

“ Yes,” said Beatrice, “Judith has saved a sum that is 
wondrous in these degenerate days of maids in silk gowns, 
and she is wise enough to give ‘ Master Geoffrey ’ all the 
management of it. But if you are surprised now, what 
will you be by the end of the daj^? See if his advice is not 
asked in at least fifty matters.” 

“I’ll count,” said Henrietta; ‘‘what have we had al- 
ready?” and she took out pencil and paper— “ number 
one, the tea-chest, then the poor man, and the turnpike 
trust ” 

“ Vixen’s puppies and the drill,” suggested her mamma. 

“And Judith’s money,” added Henrietta. “Six al- 
ready. 

' ‘ To say nothing of all that will come by the post, and 
we shall not hear of,” said Beatrice; “and look here, what 
I am going to seal for him, one, two, three— eight letters.” 

Why ! when could he possibly have written them?” 

“ Last night after we were gone to bed. It shows how 
much more grandmamma will let him do than any one 
else, that she can allow him to sit up with a candle after 
eleven o’clock. I really believe that there is not another 
living creature in the world who could do it in this house. 
There, you may add your own affairs to the list, Henrietta, 
for he is going to the Pleasance to meet some man of brick 
and mortar.” 

“ Oh, I wish we could walk there:’’ 

‘ I dare say we can. I’ll manage. Aunt Mary, should 
you not like Henrietta to go and see the Pleasance?” 

“Almost as much as Henrietta would like it herself 
Busy Bee,” said Aunt Mary; “ but I think she should walk 
to Sutton Leigh to-day.” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


169 


‘ Walk to Sutton Leigh!’’ echoed old Mrs. Langford, en- 
tering at the moment; “not you, surely, Mary?” 

“Oh no, no, grandmamma,” said Beatrice, laughing; 

she was only talking of Henrietta’s doing it.” 

‘ Well, and so do, my dears; it will be a very nice thing, 
if you go this morning before the frost goes off. Your 
aunt Roger will like to see you, and you may take the lit- 
tle pot of black currant jelly that I wanted to send over 
for poor Tom’s sore mouth.” 

Beatrice looked at Henrietta and made a face of disgust 
as she asked. “ Have they no currant jelly themselves?” 

“ Oh no, they never can keep anything in the garden. I 
don't mean that the boys take the fruit; but between tarts 
ind puddings and desserts, poor Elizabeth can never make 
my preserves.” 

“But,” objected Queen Bee, “if one of the children is 
’ll, do you think Aunt Roger will like to have us this 
morning? and the post girl could take the jelly.” 

“Oh, nonsense. Bee,” said Mrs. Langford, somewhat 
angrily; “you don’t like to doit, I see plain enough. It 
is very hard you can’t be as good-natured to our own little 
cousin as to one of the children in the village.” 

“ Indeed, grandmamma, I did not mean that.” 

‘ O no. no, grandmamma,” joined in Henrietta, “we 
shall be very glad to take it. Pray let us. ” 

“ Yes,” added Beatrice, “if it is really to be of any use, 
10 one can be more willing.” 

“Of any use?” repeated Mrs. Langford. “No! never 
mind ITl send some one.” 

“No pray do not, dear grandmamma,” eagerly ex- 
claimed Henrietta; “I do beg you will let us take it. It 
will be making me at home directly to let me be useful.' 

Grandmamma was pacified. “ When will you set out?” 
she asked; “ you had better not lose this bright morning.” 

‘ We will go directly,” said Queen Bee , “ we will go by 
the west turning, so that Henrietta may see the Pleas 
ance. ” 

“My dear! the west turning will be a swamp, and I 
won’t have you getting wet m your feet and catching 
cold,” 

“Oh, we have clogs; and besides, the road does not get 
so dirty since it has been mended. I asked Johnny this 
morning. ” 

As if he knew, or cared anything about it!— and you 
will be late for luncheon. Besides, grandpapa will drive 
your aunt there the first day she feels equal to it, and 
Henrietta may see it then. But you will always have your 
own way.” 

Henrietta had ^Idom been more uncomfortable than 


170 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


during this altercation; and but for reluctance to appear 
more obliging than her cousin, she would have begged to 
give up the scheme. Her mother would have interfered 
in another moment, but the entrance of Uncle Geoffrey gave 
a sudden turn to affairs. 

“ Who likes to go to the Pleasance?” said he, as he en- 
tered. “All whose curiosity lies that way may prepare 
their seven- leagued boots.” 

“Here are the girls dying to go,” said Mrs. Langford, as 
well pleased as if she had not been objecting the minute 
before. 

“Very well. We go by Sutton Leigh; so make haste, 
maidens.” Then, turning to his mother, “Didn’t I hear 
you say you had something to send to Elizabeth, ma’am?” 

“Only some currant jelly for little Torn; but if ” 

“ O grandmamma, that is my charge; pray don’t cheat 
me,” exclaimed Henrietta. “If you will lend me a basket, 
it will travel much better with me than in Uncle Geoffrey’s 
pocket. ’ ’ 

“Ay. that will be the proper division of labor,” said 
Uncle Geoffrey, looking well pleased with his niece; “but 
I thought you were off to get ready.” 

“ Don’t keep your uncle waiting, my dear,” added her 
mamma; and Henrietta departed, Beatrice following her 
to her room, and there exclaiming, “If there is a thing I 
can’t endure, it is goin^ to Sutton Leigh when one of the 
children is poorly ! It is always bad enough ” 

“Bad enough! O Busy Bee!” cried Henrietta, quite un- 
prepared to hear of any flaw in her paradise. 

“You will soon see what I mean. The host of boys in 
the way; the wooden bricks and black horses spotted wiih 
white wafers that you break your shins over, the marbles 
that roll away under your feet, the whips that crack in 
your ears, the universal air of nursery that pervades the 
house. It is worse in the morning, too; for one is always 
whining over mm, es, eat, and another over his spelling. 
Oh, if I had eleven brothers in a small house, I should soon 
turn misanthrope. But you are laughing instead of get- 
ting ready,” 

“ So are you.” 

“ My things will be on in a quarter of the time you take. 
I’ll tell you what, Henrietta, the Queen Bee allows no 
drones, and I shall teach you to ‘improve each shining 
hour;’ for nothing will get you into such dire disgrace 
here as to be always behind time. Besides, it is a great 
shame to waste papa’s time. Now, here is your shawl 
ready folded, and now I will trust you to put on your boots 
and bonnet by yourself.” 

In five minutes the Queen Bee flew back again, and 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


171 


found Henrietta still measuring the length of her bonnet 
strings before the glass. She hunted her down-stairs at 
last, and found the two uncles and grandpapa at the door, 
playing with the various dogs, small and great, that 
usually waited there. Fred and the other boys had gone 
out together some time since, and the party now set forth, 
the three gentlemen walking together first. Henrietta 
turned as soon as she had gone a sufficient distance that 
she might study the aspect of the house. It did not quite 
fulfill her expectations ; it was neither remarkable for age 
nor beauty ; the masonry was in a sort of chess-board pat- 
tern, alternate squares of freestone and of flints, the win- 
dows were not casements as she thought they ought to 
have been, and the long wing, or rather excrescence, 
which contained the drawing room, was by no means or- 
namental. 

It was a respectable, comfortable mansion, and that was 
all that was to be said in its praise, and Beatrice’s affec- 
tion had so embellished it in description, that it was no 
wonder that Henrietta felt slightly disappointed. She had 
had some expectation, too, of seeing it in the midst of a 
park, instead of which the carriage-drive along which thev 
were walking, only skirted a rather large grass fleld, full 
of elm-trees, and known by the less dignified name of the 
paddock. But she would not confess the failure of her ex- 
pectations even to herself, and as Beatrice was evidently 
looking for some expressions of admiration, she said the 
road must be very pretty in summer. 

*' Especially when this bank is one forest of fox-gloves,” 
said Queen Bee. ” Only think ! Uncle Roger and the farmer 
facbion wanted grandpapa to have this hedge-row grubbed 
up and turned into a plain dead fence ; but I carried the day, 
and I dare say Aunt Mary will be as much obliged to me 
as the boys, who would have lost their grand preserve of 
stoats and rabbits. But here are the outfield and the 
drill.” 

And going through a small gate at the corner of the pad- 
dock, they entered a large plowed field, traversed by a 
footpath raised and graveled, so as to be high and dry, 
which was well for the two girls, as the gentlemen left 
them to march u]) and down there by themselves, whilst 
they were discussing the merits of the brilliant blue ma- 
chine which was traveling along the furrows. It was 
rather a trial of patience, but Beatrice was used to it, and 
Henrietta was in a temper to be pleased with anything. 

At last the inspection was concluded, and Mr. Langford 
came to his granddaughters, leaving his two sons to finish 
their last words with Martin. 

“Well, young ladies, ” said he, ‘‘this is fine drilling, in 


172 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


patience at least. I only wish my wheat may be as well 
drilled with Uncle Roger’s new-fangled machines.” 

“ That is right, grandpapa,” said Queen Bee; ” you hate 
them as much as I do, don’t you, now?” 

” She is afraid they will make honey by steam,” said 
grandpapa, “and render bees a work of supererogation:” 

“They are doing what they can toward it,” said Bea- 
trice. ” Why, when Mr. Carey took us to see his hives, I 
declare I had quite a fellow-feeling for my poor subjects, 
boxed up in glass, with all their privacy destroyed. And 
they won’t even let them swarm their own way— a most 
unwarrantable interference with the liberty of the subject. ” 

” Well, done Queenie,” said Mr. Langford, laughing; ” a 
capital champion. And so you don’t look forward to the 
time when we are to have our hay made by one machine, 
our sheep washed by another, our turkeys crammed by a 
third— ay, and even the trouble of bird-starving saved us?” 

“Bird-starving!” repeated Henrietta 

“Yes; or keeping a few birds, according to the mother’s 
elegant diminutive,” said Beatrice, “ serving as live scare- 
crows.” 

“ I should have thought a scarecrow would have an- 
swered the purpose,” said Henrietta. 

“ This is one that is full of gunpowder, and fires off every 
ten minutes,” said grandpapa; “but I told Uncle Roger we 
would have none of them here unless he was prepared to 
see one his boys blown up at every third explosion. ’ ’ 

“Is Uncle Roger so very fond of machines?” said Hen- 
rietta. 

“ He goes about to cattle shows and agricultural meet- 
ings, and comes home with his pockets crammed with 
papers of new inventions, which I leave him to try as long 
as he does not empty my pockets too fast.” 

“ Don’t they succeed, then?” said Henrietta. 

“ Why— ay— I must confess we get decent crops enough. 
And once we achieved a prize ox— such a disgusting over- 
grown beast, that I could not bear the sight of it, and told 
Uncle Roger I would have no more such waste of good vict- 
uals, puffing up the ox instead of the frog.” 

Henrietta was not quite certain whether all this was 
meant in jest or earnest ; and perhaps the truth was, that 
though grandpapa had little liking for new plans, he was 
too wise not to adopt these which possessed manifest ad- 
vantage, and only indulged himself in a good deal of play- 
ful grumbling, which greatly teased Uncle Roger. 

“ There is Sutton Leigh,” said grandpapa, as they came 
in sight of a low white house among farm buildings. 
“ Well, Henrietta, are you prepared for an introduction to 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


m 


an aunt and half a dozen cousins, and Jessie Carey into 
the bargain?” 

“Jessie Carey!” exclaimed Beatrice, in a tone of dis- 
may. 

Did you not know she was there? Why they always 
send Carey over for her with the gig if there is but a tooth- 
ache the matter at Sutton Leigh.” 

“ Is she one of Aunt Eoger’s nieces!” asked Henrietta. 

“Yes,” said Beatrice. “And— oh, grandpapa, don’t 
look at me in that way. Where is the use of being your 
pet if I may not tell my mind?” 

“ I won’t have Herietta prejudiced,” said Mr. Langford. 
“Don’t listen to her, my dear; and I'll tell you what Jes- 
sie Carey is. She is an honest, good-natured girl as ever , 
lived; always ready to help every one, never thinking of 
trouble, without an atom of selfishness.” 

“Now for the hut, grandpapa,” cried Beatri<ie, “ I allow 
all that, only grant me the but.'’' 

“ But Queen Bee, chancing to be a conceited little Lon- 
doner, looks down on us poor country folks as unfit for 
her most refined and intellectual society.” 

“Oh,” grandpapa, that is not fair! Indeed, you don’t 
really believe that. Oh, say you don’t!” And Beatrice’s 
black eyes were full of tears. 

“ If I do not believe the whole you believe the half. Miss 
Bee,” and he added, half whispering, “ take care some of us 
do not believe the other half. But don’t look dismal on 
the matter, only put it into one of your waxen cells, and 
don’t lose sight of it. And if it is any comfort to you I will 
allow that perhaps poor Jessie is not the most entertaining 
companion for you. Her vanity maggots are not of the 
same sort as yours. ’ ’ 

They had by this time nearly reached Sutton Leigh, a 
building little altered from the farm-house it had originally 
been, with a small garden in front and a narrow footpath 
up to the door. As soon as they came in sight there was a 
general rush forward of little boys in brown holland. all 
darting on Uncle Geoffrey, and holding him fast by legs 
and arms. 

“Let me loose, you varlets,” he cried, and disengaging 
one hand, in another moment drew from his capacious 
pocket a beautiful red ball, which he sent bounding over 
their heads, and dancing far away with all the urchins in 
pursuit. 

At the same moment the rosy, portly, good-humored 
Mrs. Roger Langford appenred at the door, welcoming 
them cordially, and, as usual, accusing Uncle Geoffrey of 
spoiling her boys. Henrietta thought she had never seen 
a happier face than hers in the midst of cares, and children, 


174 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


and a drawing-room which, with its faded furniture strewed 
with toys, had in fact, as Beatrice said, something of the 
appearance of a nursery. 

Little Tom, the youngest, was sitting on the lap of his 
cousin, Jessie Carey, at whom Henrietta looked with some 
curiosity. She was a pretty girl of twenty, with a brill^ 
iant gypsy complexion, fine black hair, and a face which 
looked as good natured as every other inhabitant of Sutton 
Leigh. 

But it would be tedious to describe a visit which was 
actually very tedious to Beatrice, and would have been the 
same to Henrietta but for its novelty. Aunt Roger asked 
all particulars about Mrs. Frederick Langford, then of 
,^unt Geoffrey and Lady Susan St. Leger, and then gave 
the history of the misfortunes of little Tom, who was by 
this time on Uncle Geoffrey’s knee, looking at himself in 
the inside of the case of his watch. Henrietta’s list, too, 
was considerably lengthened; for Uncle Geoffrey advised 
upon a smokey chimney, mended a cart of Charlie’s, and 
assisted Willie in a puzzling Latin exercise. 

It was almost one o’clock, and as a certain sound of clat- 
tering plates was heard in the next room, Aunt Roger 
begged her guests to come in to luncheon. Uncle Geoffrey 
accepted for the girls who were to walk on with him; but 
Mr. Langford, no eater of luncheons, returned to his own 
affairs at home. Henrietta found the meal was the family 
dinner. She had hardly ever been seated at one so plain, 
or on so long a table ; and she was not only surprised, but 
tormented herself by an uncomfortable and uncalled-for 
fancy, that her hosts must be supposing her to be remark- 
ing on deficiencies. The younger children were not so per 
feet in the management of knife, fork, and spoon, as to be 
pleasant to watch; nor was the matter mended by the at- 
tempts at correction made from time to time by their 
father and Jessie. But Henrietta endured better than Bea 
trice, whose face ill concealed an expression of disgust 
and weariness, and who maintained a silence very unlike 
her usual habits. 

At last Uncle Geoffrey, to the joy of both, proposed to 
pursue their walk, and they took leave. Queen Bee re- 
joiced as soon as thejr had quited the house that the boys 
were too well occupied with their pudding to wish to ac- 
company them, but she did not venture on any further re- 
marks before her papa. He gave a long whistle, and then 
turned to point out all the interesting localities to Henrietta. 
There was something to tell of every field, every tree, or 
every villager, with whom he exchanged his hearty greet- 
ing. If it were onlj’- a name, it recalled some storj' of 
mamma’s, some tradition handed on by Beatrice. Never 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


175 


was walk more delightful ; and the girls were almost sorry 
to fiinl themselves at the green gate of the Pleasance, lead- 
ing to a gravel road, great part of which had been usurped 
by the long shoots of the evergreens. Indeed, the place 
could hardly be said to correspond in appearance to its 
name, in its chilly, deserted, unfurnished state; but the 
girls were resolved to admire, and while Uncle Geoffrey 
was deep in the subject of repairs and deficiencies, they 
flitted about from garret to cellar, making plans, fixing on 
rooms, and seeing possibilities, in complete enjoyment. 
But even this could not last forever; and, rather tired and 
very cold, they seated themselves on a step of the stairs, 
and there built a marvelous castle of delight for next sum- 
mer; then talked over the Sutton Leigh household, dis- 
cussed the last books they had read, and had just begun to- 
jmwn, when Uncle Geoffrey, being more merciful than 
most busy men, concluded his business, and summoned 
them to return home. Their homeward walk was by a dif 
ferent road, through the village of Knight Sutton itself, 
which Henrietta had not yet seen. It was a long, strag 
gling street, the cottages for the most part in gardens, and 
with a general look of comfort and neatness that showed 
the care of the proprietor. 

“ Oh, there is the church,” said Henrietta, in a subdued 
voice, as they came to the low flint wall that fenced in the 
slightly rising ground occupied by the churchyard, sur- 
rounded by a whole grove of noble elm -trees, amongst 
which could just be seen the small old church, with its 
large deep porch and curious low tower. 

” The door is open,” said Beatrice; ” I suppose they are 
bringing in the holly for Christmas. Should you like to 
look in, Henrietta?” 

“I do not know,” said she, looking at her uncle. 
” Mamma ” 

” I thing it might be less trying if she has not to feel for 
you and herself too,” said Uncle Geoffrey. 

“I am sure I should wish it very much,” said Hen- 
rietta, and they entered the low, dark, solemn-look- 
ing building, the massive stone columns and low-browed 
arches of which had in them something peculiarly 
awful and impressive to Henrietta’s present state of mind. 
Uncle Geoffrey led her on into the chancel, where, among 
numerous mural tablets recording the names of different 
members of the Langford family, was one chiefly notice- 
able for the superior taste of its Gothic canopy, and which 
bore the name of Frederick Henry Langford, with the date 
of his death, and his age, only twenty-six. One of the large 
flat stones below also had the initials F. H. L., and the date 
of the year. Henrietta stood and looked in deep silence. 


176 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


Beatrice watching her earnestly and kindly, and her uncle’s 
thoughts almost as much as hers, on what might have 
been. Her father had been so near him in age, so con- 
stantly his companion, so entirely one in mind and temper, 
that he had been far more to him than his elder brother, 
and his death had been the one great sorrow of Uncle 
Geoffrey’s life. 

The first sound which broke the stillness was the open- 
ing of the door, as the old clerk's wife entered with a huge 
basket of holly, and dragging a mighty branch behind her. 
Uncle Geoffrey nodded in reply to her courtesy, and gave 
his daughter a glance which sent her to the other end of 
the church to assist in the Christmas decorations. 

Henrietta turned her liquid eyes upon her uncle. ‘ ‘ This 
is coming very near him, ’ ’ said she in a losv voice. ‘ ‘ Uncle, 
I wish I might be quite sure that he knows me. ’ ’ 

“Do not wish too much for certainty which has not 
been granted to us,” said Uncle Geoffrey. “Think rather 
of ‘I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.’ ” 

“ But, uncle, you would not have me not believe that he 
is near to me, and knows how— how I would have loved 
him, and how I do love him,” she added, while the tears 
rose to her eyes. 

‘ ‘ It may be so, my dear, and it is a thought which is not 
only most comforting, but good for us, as bringing us closer 
to the unseen world ; but it has not been positively revealed, 
and it seems to me better to dwell on that time when the 
meeting with him is so far certain that it depends hut on 
ourselves.” 

To many persons. Uncle Geoffrey would scarce have 
spoken in this way ; but he was aware of a certain tendency 
in Henrietta’s mind to merge the reverence and respect she 
owed to her parents, in a dreamy, unpractical feeling for 
the father whom she had never known, whose voice she 
had never heard, and from whom she had not one prece]>t 
to obey; while she lost sight of that honor and duty which 
was daily called for toward her mother. It was in honor, 
not in love, that Henrietta was wanting, and with how 
many daughters is it not the same? It was, therefore, that 
though even to himself it seemed harsh, and cost him a 
pang, Mr. Geoffrey Langford resolved that his niece’s first 
visit to her father’s grave should not he spent in fruitless 
dreams of him or of his presence, alluring because involv- 
ing neither self-reproach nor resolution; but in thoughts 
which might lead to action, to humility, and to the yield 
ing up of self-will. 

Henrietta looked very thoughtful. “That time is so far 
away !” said she. 

“ How do you know that?” said her uncle in the deep, 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


177 


low tone that brought the full perception that “ it is nigh, 
even at the doors.” 

She gave a sort of shuddering sigh, the reality being 
doubly brought home to her by the remembrance of the 
suddenness of her father’s summons. 

” It is awful said she, ” I cannot bear to think of it.” 

” Henrietta,” said her uncle, solemnly, “ guard yourself 
from being so satisfied with a dream of the present as to 
lose sight of the real, most real future.” He paused, and 
as she did not speak, went on: “ The present, which is the 
means of attaining to that future, is one not of visions and 
thoughts, but of deeds.” 

Again Henrietta sighed, but presently she said: “But, 
uncle, that would bring us back to the world of sense. 
Are we not to pray that we may in heart and miud 
ascend?” 

” Yes, but to dwell with Whom? Not to stop short with 
objects once of earthly affection.” 

“ Then would you not have me think of him at all?” said 
she, almost reproachfully. 

” I would have you take care, Henrietta, lest the thought 
should absord the love and trust due to your true and 
Heavenly Father, and at the same time you forget what on 
earth is owed to your mother. Do you think that is what 
your father would desire?” 

You mean,” said she, sadly, ” that while I do not think 
enough of God, and while I love my own way so well, I 
have no right to dwell on the thought I love best, the 
thoiight that he is near.” 

“Take it rather as a caution than as a blame,” said 
Uncle Geoffrey. A long silence ensued, during which Hen- 
rietta thought deeply on the new idea opened to her. Her 
vision, for it could not be called her memory of her father, 
had in fact been too highly enshrined in her mind, too 
much worshij)ed, she had deemed this devotion a virtue, 
and fostered as it was by the solitude of lier life, and the 
temper of her mother’s mind, the truth was as Uncle 
Geoffrey had hinted, and she began to perceive it, but still it 
Avas most unwillingly, for the thought was cherished so as 
to be almost part of herself. Uncle Geoffrey’s manner Avas 
so kind that she could not be vexed with him, but she Avas 
disappointed, for she had hoped for a narration of some 
part of her father’s history, and for the indulgence of that 
soft sorrow Avhich has in it little pain. Instead of this, she 
was bidden to quit her beloved world, to soar above it, or 
to seek for a duty Avhich she had rather not believe tliat 
she neglected, though— no, she did not like to look deeper. 

Mr. Geoffrey Langford gave her time for thought, though 
of Avhat nature it might be he could not guess, and then 


178 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


said, ‘ ’ One thing more before we leave this place. Whether 
Fred cheerfully obeys the fifth commandment in its full 
extent, may often, as I believe, depend on your influence. 
Will you try to exert it in the right way.” 

“ You mean when he wishes to do things like other boys 
of his age, ’ ’ said Henrietta. 

‘‘ Yes. Think yourself, and lead him to think, that obe 
dience is better than what he fancies manliness. Teach 
him to give up pleasure for the sake of obedience, and you 
will do your work as a sister and daughter.” 

While Uncle Geoffrey was speaking, Beatrice’s opera 
tions with the holly had brought her a good deal nearer to 
them, and at the same time the church door opened, and a 
gentleman entered, whom the first glance showed Henri 
etta to be Mr. Franklin, the clergyman of the parish, of 
whom she had heard so much. He advanced on seeing 
Beatrice with the holly in her hand. “Miss Langford! 
This is just what I was wishing.” 

“I was just helping old Martha,” said Beatrice; “we 
came in to show my cousin the church, and ” 

By this time the others had advanced. 

“ How well the church looks this dark afternoon,” said 
Uncle Geoffrey, speaking in a low tone; “it is quite the 
moment to choose for seeing it for the first time. But you 
are very early in beginning your adornments.” 

“ I thought if I had the evergreens here in time, I might 
see a little to the arrangement myself,” said Mr. Franklin, 
“but lam afraid I know very little about the matter. 
Miss Langford, I wish you would assist us with your 
taste. ’ ’ 

Beatrice and Henrietta looked at each other, and their 
eyes sparkled with delight. ‘ ‘ I should like it exceedingly , ’ ’ 
said the former; “ I was just thinking what capabilities 
there are. And Henrietta will do it beautifully.” 

“Then will you really be kind enough to come to-mor 
row, and see what can be done?” 

“Yes, we will come as soon as ever breakfast is over, 
and work hard, ” said Queen Bee. “And we will make 
Alex and Fred come too, to do the places that are out of 
reach.” 

“Thank you, thank you,” said Mr. Franklin eagerly; 
“ I assure you the matter was quite upon my mind, for the 
old lady there, good as she is, has certainly not the best 
taste in church dressing.” 

“And pray, Mr. Franklin, let us have a step-ladder, for 
I am sure there ought to be festoons .round those t^vo col 
umns of the chancel arch. Look, papa, do not you think 
so?” 

“You might put a twining wreath like the columns at 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


179 


Roslin chapel,” said her papa, ‘‘and T should try how 
much I could cover the Dutch cherubs at the head of the 
tables of commandments.” 

“Oh, and don’t you see,” said Henrietta, ‘‘there in front 
of the altar is a space where I really think we might make 
the cross and ‘i. H. c.’ in holly.” 

” But could you, Henrietta?” asked Beatrice. 

‘‘ O yes, I know I can; I made ‘ M. L.’ in roses on mam 
ma’s last birthday, and set it up over the chimney-piece in 
the drawing-room, and I am sure we could contrive this. 
How appropriate it will look!” 

” Ah!” said Mr. Franklin, ‘‘ T have heard of such things, 
but I had always considered them as quite above our 
powers.” 

“They would be, without Henrietta/’ said Queen Bee, 
“but she was always excellent at wreath weaving, and 
and all those things that belong to choice taste and clever 
fingers. Only let us have plenty of the wherewithal, and 
we will do our work so as to amaze the parish.” 

“ And now,” said Uncle Geoffrey, “ we must be walking 
home, my young ladies. It is getting quite dark. ’ ’ 

“ It was indeed, for as they left the church the sunlight 
was fast fading on the horizon, and Venus was already 
shining forth in pure, quiet beauty on the clear blue sky. 
Mr. Franklin walked a considerable part of the way home 
with them, adding to Henrietta’s list by asking counsel 
about a damp spot in the wall of the church and on the 
measures to oe adopted with a refractory farmer. 

By the time they reached home, evening was fast closing 
in ; and at the sound of their entrance Mrs. Langford and 
Frederick both came to meet them in the hall, the former 
asking anxiously whether they had not been lingering in 
the cold and damp, inspecting the clogs to see that they 
were dry, and feeling if the fingers were cold. She then 
ordered the two girls up-stairs to dress before going into 
the drawing-room with their things on and told Henrietta 
to remember that dinner would be at half past five. 

“ Is mamma gone up?” asked Henrietta. 

“Yes, my dear, long ago; she has been out with your 
grandpapa, and is gone to rest herself.” 

“And how long have you been at home, Fred?” said 
Queen Bee. “Why you have performed vour toilet al- 
ready ! Why did you not come to meet us?’’ 

“ I should have had a long spy-glass to see which way 
you were gone,” said Fred, in a tone which, to Henrietta’s 
ears, implied that he was not quite pleased, and then, fol 
lowing his sister up-stairs, he went on to her, “ I wish I 
had never come in, but it was about three and Alex and 
Carey thought we might as well get a bit of something for 


180 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


luncheon, and thereby they had the pleasure of seeing 
mamma send her pretty dear up to change his shoes and 
stockings. So there was an end of me for the day. I 
declare it is getting too absurd. Do persuade mamma 
that I am not made of sugar candy.” 

With Uncle Geoffrey’s adjnonitions fresh in her mind, 
these complaints sounded painfully in Henrietta’s ears, 
and she would gladly have soothed away hi? irritation ; 
but, however convenient Judith might find the stairs for 
private conferences, they did not appear to her equally ap- 
propriate, especially when at the ver}’- moment grandpapa 
was coming down from above and grandmamma up from 
below. Both she and Fred therefore retreated into their 
mamma’s room, where they found her sitting on a low 
stool by the fire, reading by its light one of the old childish 
books, of which she seemed never to weary. Fred ’s petu 
lance, to do him justice, never could endure the charm of 
her presence, and his brow was as bright and open as his 
sister’s, as he came forward, hoping that she was not tired. 

‘‘^uite the contrary, thank you, my dear,” said she, 
smiling. ” I enjoyed my walk exceedingly.” 

” A walk!” exclaimed Henrietta. 

‘‘ A crawl, perhaps you would call it, but a delightful 
crawl it was with grandpapa up and down what we used 
to call the sun walk, by the kitchen garden wall. And 
now, Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, where have you been?” 

“I’ve been to Sutton Leigh, with the good queen,” an 
swered Henrietta, gayly. ‘ ‘ I have seen everything — Sutton 
Leigh, and the Pleasance, and the church! And, mamma, 
Mr. Franklin has asked us to go and dress the church for 
Christmas. Is not that what of all things is delightful? 
Only think of church-decking! What I have read and 
and heard of, but I always thought it something too great 
and too happy for me ever to do. ’ ’ 

‘‘I hope you will be able to succeed in it,” said her 
mamma. ” What a treat it will be to see your work on 
Sunday.” 

” And you are to help, too, Fred; you and Alexander are 
to come and reach the high places for us. But do tell us 
your adventures. ’ ’ 

Fred had been all over the farm ; had been introduced 
to the whole live stock, including ferrets and the tame 
hedge- hog; visited the plantations, and assisted at the 
killing of a stoat ; cut his name out on the bark of the old 
pollard; and, in short, had been supremely happy. He 
“ was just going to see Dumpling and Vixen’s puppies at 
Sutton Leigh, when ” 

“When I caught you, my poor by,” said his mamma; 


HENRIETTA'S WISH 


181 


“and very cruel it was, I allow, but I thought you might 
have gone out again.” 

“I had no other thick shoes upstairs; but really, 
mamma, no one thinks of minding those things.” 

“ You should have seen him, Henrietta.” said his mother; 

his shoes looked as if he had been walking through the 
river.” 

“ Well, but so were all the others,” said Fred. 

“Very likely, but they are more used to it; and, besides, 
they are such sturdy fellows. I should as soon think of a 
deal board catching cold. But you— if there is as much 
substance in you, it is all height: and you know, Fred, you 
would find it considerably more tiresome to be laid up with 
a bad cold.” 

“I never catch cold,” said Fred. 

“Boys always say so,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford; 
“it is a — what shall I call it? — a puerile delusion, which 
their mammas can always defeat when they choose by a 
formidable list of colds and coughs; but I won’t put you in 
mind of how often you have sat with your feet on the 
fender croaking like an old raven, and solacing j ourself 
with stick licorice and ‘Ivnnhoe.’ ” 

“You had better allow him to proceed in his pursuit of 
a cold, mamma,” said Henrietta, “ just to see how grand- 
mamma will nurse it.” 

A knock at the door here put an end to the conversation, 
by announcing the arrival of Bennet, Mrs. Frederick Lang- 
ford’s maid, who had come in such good time that Hmi- 
rietta was, for once in her life, full dressed a whole quarter 
of an hour before dinner-time. Nor was her involuntary 
punctuality without a reward, for the interval of waiting for 
dinner, sitting round the fire, was particularly enjoyed bv 
Mr. and Mrs. Langford ; and Uncle Geoffrey, therefore, al- 
ways contrived to make it a leisure time; and there was so 
much merriment in talking over the walk, and discussing 
the plans for the Pleasance. that Henrietta resolved never 
again to miss such a pleasant reunion by her own tardi- 
ness. 

Nor was the evening less agreeable. Henrietta pleased 
grandmamma by getting her carpet-work out of some 
puzzle, and by flying across the room to fetch the tea 
chest; she delighted grandpapa by her singing, and by find- 
ing his spectacles for him; she did quite a praiseworthy 
piece of her own crochet purse, and laughed a great deal at 
the battle that was going on between Queen Bee and Fred 
about the hero of some new book. She kept her list of 
Uncle Geoffrey’s manifold applicants on the table before 
her, and had the pleasure of increasing it by two men, busi- 
ness unknown, who sent to ask him to come and speak tq 


182 


HENRIETTA S WISH. . 


them ; by a loud and eager appeal from Fred and Beatrice 
to decide their contest, by a question of taste on the shades 
of her grandmamma’s carpet- work, and by her own query 
how to translate a difficult German passage which had 
baffled herself, mamma, and Fred. 

However, Queen Bee’s number, fifty, had not been at- 
tained, and her majesty was obliged to declare that she 
meant in a week instead of a day, for which reason the 
catalogue was written out fair, to be continued. 

Mrs. Frederick Langford thought herself well recom- 
pensed for the pain her resolution had cost her, by the 
pleasure that Mr. and Mrs. Langford evidently took in her 
son and daughter, by the brightness of her two children’s 
own faces, and especially when Henrietta murmured in 
her sleep something about “ dehghtful,” “bright leaves 
and red berries,’’ and then, “and ’tis for my own dear 
papa.’’ 

And after all, in the attainment of their fondest wish, 
were Henrietta and Frederick as serenely happy as she 
was. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Christmas Eve, which was also a Saturday, dawned 
brightly on Henrietta, but even her eagerness for her new 
employment could not so far overcome her habitual dila- 
toriness as not to annoy her cousin. Busy Bee, even to a 
degree of very unnecessary fidgeting when there was any 
work in hand. She sat on thorns all breakfast time, de 
voured what her grandpapa called a sparrow’s allowance, 
swallowed her tea scalding, and thereby gained nothing 
but leisure to fret at the deliberation with which Henrietta 
cut her bread into little square dice, and spread her butler 
on them as if each piece was to serve as a model for future 
generations. 

The subject of conversation was not precisely calculated 
to soothe her spirits. Grandmamma was talking of giving 
a )"oung party— a New Year’s party, on Monday week, the 
second of January. “It would be pleasant for the young 
people,” she thought, “if Mary did not think it would be 
too much for her.” 

Beatrice looked despairingly at her aunt, \vell knowing 
Avhat her answer would be, that it would not be at all too 
much for her, that she should bo very glad to see her former 
neighbors, and that it would be a great treat to Henrietta 
and Fred. 

“We will have the carpet up in the dining-room,” 
^dded Mrs. Langford, “and Daniels, the carpenter, she^U 


183 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 

bring his violin, and we can get up a nice little set for a 
dance.” 

Oh thank you, grandmamma,” cried Henrietta eagerly , 
as Mrs. Langford looked at her. 

“Poor innocent, you little know!” murmured Queen 
Bee to herself. 

“That is right, Henrietta,” said Mrs. Langford, ‘‘I like 
to see young people like young people, not above a dance 
now and then — all in moderation.” 

“Above dancing,” said grandpapa, who, perhaps, took 
this as a reflection on his pet, Queen Bee, “that is what 
you call being on the high rope, isn’t it?” 

Beatrice, though feeling excessively savage, could not 
help laughing. 

“ Are you on 'the the high rope, Queenie?” asked Fred, 
who sat next to her; “do you despise the light fantas- 
tic ?” 

“I don’t know; I do not mind it much.'' was all she 
could bring herself to say, though she could not venture to 
be more decidedly ungracious before her father. “Not 
much in itself,” she added, in a lower tone, as the conver- 
sation grew lowder, “ it is the people, Philip Carey, and all 
—but hush ! listen !’ ’ 

He did so, and heard Careys, Dittons, Evanses, etc., 
enumerated, and at each name Beatrice, looked gloomier, 
but she was not observed, for her Aunt Mary had much 
to hear about the present state of the families, and the 
stream of conversation flowed away from the/e^e. 

The meal was at last concluded, and Beatrice in great 
haste ordered Frederick off to Sutton Leigh, with a mes- 
sage to Alex to meet them at the church, and bring as 
much holly as he could, and his great knife. “ Bring him 
safe,” said she. “ for if you fail, and prove a corby mes- 
senger, I promise you worse than the sharpest sting of the 
most angry be(\” 

“Away "she ran to fetch her bonnet and shawl, while 
Henrietta walked up after her, saying she would just fetch 
her mamma’s writing-case down for her, and then get 
ready directly. On coming down, she could not help wait- 
ing a moment before advancing to the table, to hear what 
was passing between her mother and uncle. 

“Do you like forme to drive you down to the church to- 
day?” he asked. 

“ Thank you,” she answered, raising her mild blue eyes, 
“ I think not.” 

“ Remember, it will be perfectly convenient, and do just 
what suits you,” said he, in his voice of kind solicitude. 

“Thank 3^011 very much, Geoffrey,” she replied, in an 
earnest tone, “ but indeed I had better go for the flrsttime 


184 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


to the serv^ice, especially on such a day as to morrow, 
when thoughts must be in better order.” 

“I understand,” said Uncle Geoffrey; and Henrietta, 
putting down the writing-case, retreated with downcast 
eyes, with a moment’s perception of the higher tone of 
mind to which he had tried to raise her. 

In the hall she found Mrs. Langford engaged in moving 
her precious family of plants from their night quarters 
near the fire to the bright sunshine near the window. Hen- 
rietta seeing her lifting heavy flower pots, instantly sprung 
forward with, “O grandmamma, let me help.” 

Little as Mrs. Langford was wont to allow herself to be 
assisted, she was gratified with the obliging offer, and Hen- 
rietta had carried the myrtle, the old fashioned oak-leafed 
geranium, with its fragrant, deeply indented leaves, a 
grim looking cactus, and two or three more, and was deep 
in the story of the orange-tree, the pip of which had been 
planted by Uncle Geoffrey at five years old, but which 
never seemed likely to grow beyond the size of a tolerable 
currant-bush, when Beatrice came down and beheld her 
with consternation— “ Henrietta! Henrietta! what are you 
about?” cried she, breaking full into the story. ” Do make 
haste.” 

” I will come in a minute,” said Henrietta, who was as- 
sisting in adjusting the prop to which the old daphne was 
tied. 

“Don’t stop for me, my dear,” said Mrs. Langford- 
“ there, don’t let me be in 3^ our waj’-.” 

“ Oh, grandmamma, I like to do this very much.” 

“But, Henrietta,” persisted the despotic Queen Bee, 
“ we really ought to be there.” 

“ What is all this about?” said grandmamma, not par- 
ticularly well pleased. “There, go, go, my dear; I don’t 
want any more, thank you; what are you in such a fuss 
for now, going out all day again?” 

“ Yes, grandmamma.” said Beatrice, “ did not you hear 
that Mr. Franklin asked us to dress the church for to- 
morrow? and we must not waste time in these short 
days.” 

“Dress the church! Well, I suppose j^ou must have 
your own way, but I never heard of such things in my 
younger days. Young ladies are very different now.” 

Beatrice drove Henrietta up stairs with a renewed “ Do 
make haste!” and then replied in a tone of argument and 
irritation, “ I do not see why young ladies should not like 
dressing churches for festivals better than dressing them- 
selves for balls and dances!” 

True as the speech was, how would Beatrice have liked 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 185 

to have seen her father or mother stand before her at that 
moment? 

“ Ah, well! it is all very well,” said grandmamma, shak- 
ing her head, as she always did when out-argued by Bea- 
trice, “you girls think yourselves so clever, there is no 
talking to you ; but I think you had much better let old 
Martha alone; she has done it well enough before ever you 
were born, and such a litter as you will make ! The church 
won’t be fit to be seen to-morrow! All day in that cold 
damp place too ! I wonder Mary could consent, Henrietta 
looks very delicate.” 

“Ono grandmamma, she is quite strong, very strong, 
indeed.” 

” I am sure she is hoarse this morning,” proceeded Mrs. 
Langford ; ” I shall speak to her mamma.” 

”0 don’t, pray, grandmamma; she would be so disap- 
pointed! And what would Mr. Franklin do?” 

”0 very well, I promise you, as he has done before,” 
said Mrs. Langford, hastening off to the drawing-room, 
while her granddaughter darted up stairs to hurry Hen 
rietta out of the house before a prohibition could arrive. 
It was what Henrietta had too often assisted Fred in doing 
to have many scruples, besides which she knew how 
grieved her mamma would be to be obliged to stop her, 
and how glad to find her safe out of reach ; so she let her 
cousin heap on shawls, fur cuffs, and bows in a far less 
leisurely and discriminating manner than was usual with 
her. 

” It would be absolute sneaking (to use an elegant word), 
I suppose,” said Beatrice, “to go down the back stairs.” 

” True,” said Henrietta, ” we will even take the bull by 
the horns.” 

” And trust to our heels,” said Beatrice, stealthily open- 
ing the door; ‘‘the coast is clear, and I know both your 
mamma and my papa will not stop us if the^ can help it. 
One, two, three, and away!” 

Off they flew, down the stairs, across the hall, and up 
the long green walk, before tliey ventured to stop for Hen- 
rietta to put on her gloves, and take up the boa that was 
dragging behind her like a huge serpent. And after all, 
there was no need for their flight; they might have gone 
openly and with clear consciences, had they but properly 
and submissively waited the decision of their elders. Mr. 
Geoffrey Langford, who did not know how ill his daughter 
had been behaving, would have been very sorry to inter- 
fere with the plan, and easilj^ reconciled his mother to it, 
in his own cheerful, pleasant way. Indeed, her opposition 
had been entirely caused by Beatrice herself; slie li.id not 
once thought of objecting when it had been first mentioned 


HENRIETTAS WISH. 


3 86 

the evening before, and had not Beatrice first fidgeted and 
then argued, would only have regarded it as a pleasant 
way of occupying their morning. 

“ I could scold you, Miss Drone,” said Beatrice, when the 
two girls had set themselves to rights and recovered breath ; 
” it was all the fault of your dawdling.” 

” Well, perhaps it was,” said Henrietta, “but you know 
I could not see grandmamma lifting those flower pots 
without offering to help her.” 

‘ ‘ How many more times shall I have to tell yoii that 
grandmamma hates to be helped?” 

‘ ‘ Then she was very kind to me, ’ ’ replied Henrietta. 

“ I see how it will be,” said Beatrice, smiling, “you will 
be grandmamma’s pet, and it will be a just division. I 
never yet could get her to let me help her in anything, she 
is so resolutely independent. ’ ’ 

Queen Bee did not take into account how often her serv 
ice was either grudgingly offered, or else when she came 
with a good will, it was also with a way, it might be better, it 
might be worse, but in which she was determined to have 
the thing done, and against which grandmamma was of 
course equally resolute. 

“She is an amazing person!” said Henrietta, musingly. 
“ Is she eighty yet?” 

“Seventy-nine,” said Beatrice, “and grandpapa eight}^ 
two. I always say I think we should get the prize in a 
show of grandfathers and mothers, if there was one like 
Uncle Roger’s fat cattle shows. You know she thinks 
nothing of walking twice to church on Sunday, and all 
over the village besides when there is anybody ill. But 
here is the Sutton Leigh path. Let me see if those boys 
are to be trusted. Yes, yes, that’s right! Capital!” cried 
she, in high glee; “here is Birnam Wood coming across the 
field. ’ ’ And springing on one of the bars of the gate near the 
top, she flourished her handkerchief chanting or singing, 
“ Greet thee well, thou holly green, 

Welcome, welcome art thou seen. 

With all thy glittering garlands bending, 

As to greet my— quick descending;” 

she finished in an altered tone, as she was obliged to spring 
precipitately down to avoid a fall. ‘ ‘ It made a capital con 
elusion, however, though not quite what I had proposed. 
Well, gentlemen,” as four or five of the boys came up, 
each bearing a huge holly bush. “ Well, gentlemen, you 
are a sight for sail* een. ” 

“With sair fingers, you mean,” said Fred; “these 
bushes scratch like half a dozen wild cats.” 

“ It is in too good a cause for me to pity you,” said Bea 
trice. 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


187 


“ Nor would I accept it if you would,” said Fred. 

His sister, however, seemed determined on bestowing it 
whether he would or not. ‘ ‘ How your hands are bleeding ! 
Have you any thorns in them? Let me see, t have my 
penknife.” 

“Stuff!” was Fred’s gracious reply, as he glanced at 
Alex and Carey. 

“But why did you not put on your gloves?” proceeded 
Henrietta. 

“ Gloves, nonsense!” said Fred, who never went without 
them at Rocksand. 

“ He will take up the gauntlet presently,” said Beatrice. 
“By the bye, Alex, how many pair of gloves have you 
had or lost in your life?” 

“Oh, I always keep a pair for Sundays and for Allon 
field,” said Alex. 

“ Jessie says she will never let me drive her again with 
out them,” said Carey, “but trust me for that; I hate 
them, they are such girls' things; I tell her then she can’t 
be driven.” 

Fred could not bear to hear of Carey’s driving, a thing 
which he had not been permitted to attempt, and he hastily 
broke in; “ You have not told the news yet.” 

“ What news?” 

“The Euphrosyne is coming home,” cried the boys 
with one voice. “Had we not told you? The Euphro 
syne is coming home, and Roger may be here any day !’ ’ 

“That is something like news,” said Queen Bee; “I 
thought it would only be that the puppies could see, or 
that Tom’s tooth was through. Grandpapa has not heard 
it?” 

“Papa is going up to tell him,” said John. “I was 
going too, only Alex bagged me to carry his holly bush.” 

“And so the great ‘ Rogero’ is coming home!” said Bea 
trice. “ How you will learn to talk sea slang! And how 
happy grandmamma will be, especially if he comes in time 
for her great affair. Do you hear, Alex? you must prac 
tice y our steps, for grandmamma is going to give a grand 
party, Careys a) id Evanses, and all, on purpose to gratify 
Fred’s great love of dancing.” 

“I love dancing?” exclaimed Fred, in a tone of as- 
tonishment and contempt 

“ Why, did you not look quite enraptured at breakfast 
when it was proposed? I expected you every moment to 
ask the honor of my hand for the first quadrille, but I sup 
pose you leave it for Philip Carey!” 

“ If it comes at all you must start me. Bee, ” said Alex, 
“for I am sure I can’t dance with any one but you,” 

“ Let me request it now,” said Fred, “though why you 


188 


HENRIETTA 'S WISH. 


should think I like dancing I cannot imagine! I am sure 
nothing but your majesty can make it endurable.'’ 

“There are compliments to your majesty,” cried Hen- 
rietta, laughing; “one will not or cannot dance at all 
without her, the other cannot find it endurable! I long to 
see which is tabe gratified.” 

“Time will show,” said Beatrice; “I shall ponder on 
their requests, and decide maturely, Greek against Prus- 
sian, lover of the dance against hater of the dance.” 

“ I don’t love it, I declare,” exclaimed Fred. 

“ I don’t mind it, if you dance with me,” said Alex. 

And Beatrice was in her glory, teasing them both, and 
feeling herself the object bf attention to both. 

Flirtation is not a pleasant word, and it is one which we 
are apt to think applies chiefiy to the manners of the girls 
vain of their personal appearance, and wanting in sense or 
education. Beatrice would have thought herself infinitely 
above it; but what else was her love of attention, her de 
light in playing off her two cousins against each other? 
Beauty, or the consciousness of beauty, has little to do with 
it. Henrietta, if ever the matter occurred to her, could 
not help knowing that she was uncommonly pretty, yet no 
one could be more free from any tendency to this habit. 
Beatrice knew equally well that she was plain, but that did 
not make the least difference; if any, it was rather on the 
side of vanity, in being able, without a handsome face, so 
to attract and engross her cousins. It was amusing, grati- 
fying, fiattering, to feel her power to play them off, and 
irritate the little feelings of jealousy which she had de- 
tected, and thoughtless as to the right or wrong, she pur- 
sued her course. 

On reaching the church they found that, as was usual 
with her, she had brought them before any one was ready. 
The doors were locked, and they had to wait while Carey 
and John went to old Martha’s to fetch the key. In a few 
minutes more Mr. Franklin arrived, well pleased to see 
them ready to fulfill their promise; the west door was 
opened, and disclosed a huge heap of holly laid up under 
the tower, ready for use. 

The first things the boys did was to go up into the belfry, 
and out on the top of the tower, and Busy Bee had a great 
mind to follow them; but slie thought it would not be fair 
to Mr. Franklin, and the wide field upon which she had to 
work began to alarm her imagination. 

Before the boys came down again, she had settled the 
plan of operations with Henrietta and Mr. Franklin, 
dragged her holly bushes into the aisle, and brought out 
her knife and string. They came down declaring that they 
could be of no use, and they should go away, and Beatrice 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


189 


made no objection to the departure of Carey and Johnny, 
who, as she justly observed, would be only in the way ; but 
she insisted on keeping Fred and Alex. 

“ Look at all those pillars! How are we ever to twine 
them by ourselves? Look at all those great bushes ! How 
are we to lift them? No, no, indeed, we cannot spare you, 
Fred. We must have some stronger hands to help us, and 
you have such a good eye for this sort of thing. ’ ’ 

Had Alexander gone, Fred would have found some ex- 
cuse for following him, rather than he should leave him 
with young ladies, doing young ladies’ work; but as 
Beatrice well knew, Alex would never withdraw his as- 
sistance when she asked Fred’s, and she felt secure of them 
both. 

“There, Alex, settle that ladder by the screen, please. 
Now will you see if there is anything to tie a piece of string 
to? for it IS of no use to make a festoon if we cannot fasten 
it.” 

“ I can’t see anything.” 

“ Here, give me your hand, and I’ll look.” Up tripped 
the little Bee, just holding by his hand. “ Yes, to be sure 
there is 1 Here is a great, rough nail sticking out. Is it 
firm? Yes, capitally. Now, Alex, make a sailor’s knoti 
round it. Help me down first, though — thank you. Fred, 
will you trim that branch into something like shape. You 
see how I mean. We must have a long drooping wreath of 
holly and ivy, to blend with the screen. How tough this 
ivy is! Thank you— that’s it. Well, Mr. Franklin, I hope 
we shall get on in time.” 

Mr. Franklin was sure of it ; and seeing all actively em- 
ployed, and himself of little use, he took his leave for the 
present, hoping that the Misses Langford would not tire 
themselves. 

Angels’ work is church decoration— work fit for angels, 
that is to say; but how pure should be the hands and 
hearts engaged in it ! Its greatness makes it solemn and 
awful. It is work immediately for the glory of God ; it is 
work like that of the children who strewed the palm- 
branches before the steps of the Redeemer! Who can 
frame in imagination a more favored and delightful occu- 
pation, than that of the four young creatures who were, in 
very deed, greeting the coining of their Lord ’\^ith those 
bright, glistening wreaths with which they were adorning 
His sanctuary ? 

Angels’ work ! but the angels veil their faces and tremble ; 
and we upon earth have still greater cause to tremble and 
bow down in awful reverence, when we are allowed to ap- 
proach 30 near His shrine. And was that spirit of holy fear 


190 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


—that sole desire for His glory— the chief thought with 
these young people? 

Not that there was what even a severe judge could call 
irreverence in word or deed ; there was no idle laughter, 
and the conversation was in a tone and a style which 
showed that they were all well trained in respect for the 
sanctity of the place. Even in all the helping up and down 
ladders and steps, in the reaching over for branches, in 
all the little mishaps and ad ventures that befell them, their 
behavior was outwardly perfectly what it ought to have 
been ; and that is no small praise for four young people, 
under seventeen, left in church alone together for so many 
hours. 

But still Beatrice’s great aim was, unconsciously per- 
haps, to keep the two boys entirely devoted to herself, and 
to exert her power. Wonderful power it was in reality, 
which kept them interested in employment so little accord- 
ant with their nature; kept them amused without irrever- 
ence, and doing good service all the time. But it was a 
power of which she greatly enjoyed the exercise, and which 
did nothing to lessen the rivalry between them. As to 
Henrietta, she was sitting apart on a hassock, very happy, 
and very busy in arranging the monogram and wreath 
which she had yesterday proposed. She was almost for- 
gotten by the other three— certainly neglected — but she 
did not feel it so ; she had rather be quiet, for she could not 
work and talk like Queen Bee; and she liked to think over 
the numerous verses and hymns that her employment 
brought to her mind. Uncle Geoffrey’s conversation dwelt 
upon her too; she began to realize his meaning, and she 
was especially anxious to fulfill his desire, by entreating 
Fred to beware of temptations to disobedience. Opportuni- 
ties for private interviews were, however, very rare at 
Knight Sutton, and she had been looking forward to hav- 
ing him all to herself here, when he must wish to visit his 
father’s grave with her. She was vexed for a moment 
that his first attention was not given to it ; but she knew 
that his first thought was there, and boys never showed 
what was uppermost in their minds to any one but their 
sisters. She should have him by and by, and the present 
was full of tranquil enjoyment. 

If Henrietta had been free from blame in coming to 
Knight Sutton at all, or in her way of leaving the house 
this morning, there would have been little or no drawback 
to our pleasure in contemplating her. 

“ Is it possible!” exclaimed Queen Bee, as the last rever- 
beration of the single stroke of the deep- toned clock fell 
quivering on her ear. “I thought you would have given 
US at least eleven more, ” 


HENRIETTAS WISH. 


191 


‘ ‘ What a quantity remains to be done !’ ’ sighed Henrietta, 
laying down the wreath which she had just completed. 
“Your work looks beautiful, Queenie, but how shall we 
ever finish?” 

“A short winter’s day, too, ’ ’ said Beatrice. ‘ ‘ One thing 
is certain — that we can’t go home to luncheon.” 

“What will grandmamma think of that?” said Henri- 
etta doubtfully. “Will she like it?” 

Beatrice could have answered, “Not at all;” but she 
said, “Oh never mind, it can’t be helped; we should be 
late even if we were to set off now, and besides we might 
be caught and stopped.” 

“ Oh, that would be worse than anything,” said Henri- 
etta, quite convinced. 

“So you mean to starve,” said Alex. 

“Seew^hat slaves men are to creature comforts,” said 
Beatrice; “ what do you say, Henrietta?” 

‘ ‘ I had much rather stay here, ’ ’ said Henrietta ; “I want 
nothing. ’ ’ 

“Much better fun to go without,” said Fred, who had 
not often enough missed a regular meal not to think doing 
so an honor and a joke. 

“I’ll tell you what will do best of all!” cried Queen Bee. 
“ You go to Dame Reid’s, and buy us sixpenny- worth of 
the gingerbread papa calls the extreme of luxury, and we 
will eat it on the old men’s bench in the porch.” 

“ Oho! her majesty is descending to creature comforts,” 
said Alex. “I thought she would soon come down to other 
mortals.” 

“ Only to gratify her famishing subjects,” said Beatrice, 
“ you disloyal vassal, you ! Fred is worth a dozen of you. 
Come, make haste. She is sure to have a fresh stock, for 
she always has a great baking when Mr. Geoffrey is com- 
ing.” 

“For his private eating?” said Fred. 

“He likes it pretty well, certainly; and he seldom goes 
through the village without making considerable purchases 
for the benefit of the children in his path, who take care to 
be not a few. I found little Jenny Woods made small dis- 
tinction between Mr. Geoffrey and Mr. Ginger. But come, 
Alex, why are not you off?” 

“Because I don’t happen to have a sixpence,” said Alex, 
with an honest openness overcoming his desire to add “in 
my pocket.” It cost him an effort; for at school, where 
each slight advantage was noted, and comparisons perpet- 
ually made, Fred’s superior wealth and larger allowance 
had secured him the adherence of some; and though he 
either knew it not, or despised such mammon worship, his 


192 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


rival was sufficiently awake to it to be uncomfortable in ac- 
knowledging his poverty. 

‘ Every one is poor at the end of the half,” said Fred, 
tossing up his purse and catching it again, so as to demon- 
strate its lightness. ‘‘Here is a sixpence, though, at her 
majesty’s service. ’ ’ 

“ And do you think she would take your last sixpence, 
you honor to loyalty?” said Beatrice, feeling in her pocket. 
*‘ We are not fallen quite so low. But alas! the royal ex- 
chequer is, as I now remember, locked up in my desk at 
home.” 

‘‘ Apd my purse is in my work-box,” said Henrietta. 

“So, Fred, I must bo beholden to you for the present,” 
said Beatrice, “ if it won’t quite break you down.” 

“There are more where that came from,” said Fred, 
with a careless air. “ Come along, Alex.” 

Away they went. ‘ ‘ That is i inlucky, ’ ’ soliloquized Queen 
Bee; “ if I Could have sent Alex alone, it would have been 
all right, and he would have come back again ; but now 
one will carry away the other, and we shall see them no 
more.” 

“ No, no, that would be rather too bad,” said Henrietta. 
“ I am sure Fred will behave better.” 

“ Mark what I say, ” said Beatrice. “ I know how it will 
be ; a dog or a gun is what a boy cannot for a moment 
withstand, and if we see them again ’twill be a nine days’ 
wonder. But come, we must to the work ; I want to look 
at your wreath. ’ ’ 

She did not, however, work quite as cheerily as before, 
and lost much time in running backward and forward to 
peep out at the door, and in protesting that she was neither 
surprised nor annoyed at the faithlessness of her envoys. 
At last a droll little frightened knock was heard at the 
door. Beatrice went to open it, and a whitey -brown paper 
parcel was held out to her by a boy in a green canvas round 
frock, and a pair of round, hard, red, solid-looking cheeks ; 
no other than Dame Eeid’s grandson. 

“Thank you,” said she. “Did Master Alexander give 
you this?” 

“ Ay.” 

“ Thank you, that’s right!” and away he went. 

“ You see, ” said Queen Bee, holding up the parcel to 
Henrietta, who came out to the porch. ‘ ‘ Let us look. Oh, 
they have vouchsafed a note!” and she took out a crum- 
pled envelope, directed in Aunt Mary’s handwriting to 
Fred, on the back of which Alex had written, “Dear B., 
we beg pardon, but Carey and Dick are going up to An- 
drews^ about his terrier. — A. L. ” “ Very cool, certainly, ’ ’ 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 193 

said Beatrice, laughing, but still with a little pique. 
“What a life I will lead them!” 

“ Well, you were a true prophet,” said Henrietta, “ and 
after all it does not much signify. They have done all the 
work that is out of reach ; but still I thought Fred would 
have behaved better.” 

“You have yet to learn the difference between Fred with 
you or with me, and Fred with his own congeners,” said 
Beatrice; “ you don’t know half the phases of boy nature.” 

Henrietta sighed ; for Fred had certainly not been quite 
what she expected him to-day. Not because he had ap- 
peared to forget her, for that was nothing — that was only 
appearance, and her love was too healthy and true even to 
feel it neglect; but he had forgotten his father’s grave. 
He was now neglecting the church ; and far from its con- 
soling her to hear that it was the way with all boys when 
they came together, it gave her one moment’s doubt whether 
they were not happier, when they were all in all to each 
other at Rocksand. 

It was but for one instant that she felt this impression ; 
the next it had passed away, and she was sharing the 
gingerbread with her cousin, and smiling at the great ad- 
miration in which it seemed to be held by the natives of 
Knight Sutton. They took a short walk up and down the 
churchyard while eating it, and then returned to their oc- 
cupation, Avell pleased, on re-entering, to see how much 
show they had made already. They worked together very 
happily ; indeed, now that all thought of her squires was 
quite out of her head, Beatrice worked much more in 
earnest and in the right kind of frame; something more of 
the true spirit of this service came over her, and she really 
possessed some of that temper of devotion which she fancied 
had been with her the whole day. 

It was a beautiful thing when Henrietta raised her face, 
as she was kneeling by the font, and her clear sweet voice 
began at first in a low timid note, but gradually growing 
fuller and stronger: 

“ Hark! the herald angels sing 
Glory to the new-born King, 

Peace cn earth, and mercy mild, 

God and sinners reconciled.” 

Beatrice took up the strain at the first line, and sweetly 
did their tones echo through the building; while their 
hearts swelled with delight and thankfulness for the “ good 
tidings of great joy.” Another and another Christian 
hymn was raised, and never were carols sung by happier 
voices ; and the decorations proceeded all the better and 
more suitably beneath their in fl uence. They scarcely knew 
how time passed away, till Hourietta, turning round, was 


194 HENRIETTA'S WISH, 

amazed to see Uncle Geoffrey standing just within the door 
watching them. 

“Beautiful!” said he, as she suddenly ceased, in some 
confusion ; ‘ ‘ your work is beautiful ! I came here prepared 
to scold you a little, but I don’t think I can. Who made 
that wreath and monogram?” 

“She did, of course, papa,” said Beatrice, pointing to her 
cousin. “ Who else could?” 

“It is a very successful arrangement,” said Uncle 
Geoffrey, moving about to find the spot for obtaining the 
best view. “ It is an arrangement to suggest so much.” 

Henrietta came to the place where he stood, and for the 
first time perceived the full effect of her work. It was 
placed in front of the altar, the dark crimson covering of 
which relieved the shining leaves and scarlet berries of the 
holly. The three letters, i h c, were in the center, formed 
of small sprays fastened in the required shape : and around 
them was a large circle of holly, plaited and twined to- 
gether, the many -pointed leaves standing out in every 
direction in their peculiar stiff gracefulness. 

“I see it now!” said she, in a low voice full of awe. 
“Uncle, I did not mean to make it so!” 

“How?” he asked. 

“It is like Good Friday!” said she, as the resemblance 
to the crown of thorns struck her more and more strongly. 

“Well, why not, my dear?” said her uncle, as she 
shrunk closer to him in a sort of alarm. “ Would Christ- 
mas be worth observing if it were not for Good Friday?” 

“ Yes, it is right, uncle; but somehow it is melancholy.” 

“Where are those verses that say— let me see: 

“ ‘ And still Thy Church’s faith 
Shall link, in all her prayers and praise, 

Thy glory with Thy death.’ 

So you see, Henrietta, you have been guided to do quite 
right.” 

Henrietta gave a little sigh, but did not answer; and 
Beatrice said, “ It is a very odd thing, whenever any work 
of art— or, what shall I call it?— is well done, it is apt to 
have so much more in it than the author intended. It is 
so in poetry, painting and everything else.” 

“ There is, perhaps, more meaning than we understand 
when we talk of the spirit in which a thing is done,” said 
her father: “ But have you much more to do? Those col- 
umns look very well.” 

“ Oh, are you come to help us, papa?” 

“ I came chiefly because grandmamma was a good deal 
concerned at your not coming home to luncheon. You 
must not be out the whole morning again just at present. 
I have some sandwiches in my pocket for you.” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


195 


Beatrice explained how they had been fed, and her papa 
said, “ Very well, we will find some one who will be glad 
of them; but mind, do not make her think you unsociable 
again. Do you hear and heed?” 

It was that sort of tone which, while perfectly kind and 
gentle shows that it belongs to a man who will be obeyed, 
and ready compliance was promised. He proceeded to 
give his very valuable aid at once in taste and execution, 
the adornment prospered greatly, and when Mr. Franklin 
came in, his surprise and delight were excited by the 
beauty which had grown up in his absence. The long, 
drooping, massive wreaths of evergreen at the east end, 
centering in the crown and letters; the spiral festoons 
round the pillars ; the sprays in every niche ; the tower of 
holly over the font — all were more beautiful both together 
and singly, than he had even imagined, and he was pro- 
fuse in admiration and thanks. 

The work was done ; and the two Misses Langford, after 
one well-satisfied survey from the door, bent their steps 
homeward, looking forward to the pleasure witli which 
grandpapa and Aunt Mary would see it to morrow. As 
they went in the deepening twilight, the whole village 
seemed vocal; children’s voices, shrill and tuneless near, 
but softened by distance, were ringing out here, there, and 
everywhere, with — 

“As shepherds watched their flocks by night.” 

And again, as they walked on, the sound from another 
band of little voices was brought on the still, frosty wind— 
“Glad tidings of great joy I bring 
To you and all mankind.” 

Imperfect rhymes, bad Voices, no time observed ; but how 
joyous— how really Christmas-like— how well it suited the 
soft half-light, the last pale shine of sunset lingering in the 
southwest! the large, solemn stars that one by one ap- 
peared I How Uncle Geoffrey caught up the lines and sung 
them over to himself ! How light and free Beatrice walked I 
—and how the quiet, happy tears would rise in Henrietta’s 
eyes! 

The sinking in the drawing-room that evening, far su- 
perior as it was, with Henrietta, Beatrice, Frederick, and 
even Aunt Mary’s beautiful voice, was not equal in enjoy- 
ment to that. Was it because Beatrice was teasing Fred 
all the time about his defection? The church singers came 
up to the Hall, and the drawing-room door was set open 
for the party to listen to them; grandpapa and Uncle 
Geoffrey went out to have a talk with them, and so passed 
the space till tea-time ; to say nothing of the many little 
troops of young small voices outside the windows, to 


196 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


whom Mrs. Langford’s plum buns, and Mr. Geoffrey’s six- 
pences, were a very enjoyable part of the Christmas fes- 
tivities. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The double feast of Sunday and Christmas Day dawned 
upon Henrietta with many anxieties for her mother, to 
whom the first going to church must be so great a trial. 
Would that she could, as of old, be at her side the whole 
day! but this privilege, unrecked of at Rocksand, was no 
longer hers. She had to walk to church with grand- 
mamma and the rest of the party, while Mrs. Frederick 
Langford was driven in the open carriage by old Mr. Lang- 
ford, and she was obliged to comfort herself with recollect- 
ing that no companion ever suited her better than grand- 
papa. It was a sight to be remembered when she came 
into church, leaning upon his arm, her sweet expression of 
peace and resignation making her even more lovely than 
when last she entered there— her face in all its early bloom 
of youthful beauty, and radiant with innocent happiness. 

But Henrietta knew not how to appreciate that “peace 
which passeth all understanding;” and all that she saw 
was the glistening of tears in her eyes, and the heaving of 
her bosom, as she knelt down in her place; and she thought 
til at if she had calculated all that she would have to go 
through, and all her own anxieties for her, she should never 
have urged their removal. She viewed it, however, as a 
matter of expediency rather than of dutj^, and her feelings 
were not in the only right and wholesome channel. As on 
the former occasion, Knight Sutton Church seemed to her 
more full of her father’s presence than of any other, so 
now, throughout the service, she was chiefly occupied with 
watching her mother; and entirely by the force of her 
own imagination, she contrived to work herself into a state 
of nervous apprehension, only equaled by her mamma's 
own anxieties for Fred. Neither she nor any of her young 
cousins were yet confirmed, so they all left the church to- 
gether. What would she not have given to be able to talk 
her fears over with either Frederick or Beatrice, and be 
assured by them that her mamma had borne it very well, 
and would not suffer from it. But though neither of them 
was indifferent or unfeeling, there was not much likelihood 
of sympathy from them just at present. Beatrice had al- 
ways been sure that Aunt Mary would behave like an 
angel ; and when Fred saw that his mother looked tranquil, 
and showed no symptoms of agitation, he dismissed anxiety 
from his mind, and never even guessed at his sister's 
alarms. 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


197 


Nor in reality had he many thoughts for his sister of 
any kind ; for he was, as usual, engrossed with Queen Bee, 
criticising the decorations which had been completed in 
his absence, and, together with Alex, replying to the scold- 
ing with which she visited their ^lesertion. 

Nothing could have been more eminently successful than 
the decorations, which looked to still greater advantage in 
the brightness of the morning sun than in tlie dimness of 
the evening twilight; and many were the compliments 
which the two young ladies received upon their handi- 
work. The old women had “ never seen nothing like it,” 
the school children whispered to each other: “How 
pretty!” Uncle Geoffrey and Mr. Franklin admired even 
more than before; grandpapa and Aunt Mary were de- 
lighted ; grandmamma herself allowed it was much better 
than she had expected ; and Jessie Carey, by way of climax, 
said it ‘ ‘ was like magic. ’ ’ 

It was a very different Sunday from tnose to which 
Henrietta had been accustomed, in the complete q^uiet and 
retirement of Eocksand. The Hall was so far from the 
church that there was but just time to get back in time 
for evening service. After which, according to a prac- 
tice of which she had often heard her mamma speak 
with many agreeable reminiscences, the Langford family 
almost always went in a body on a progress to the farm- 
yard, to visit the fatting oxen and see the cows milked. 

Mrs. Eoger Langford was at home with little Tom, and 
Mrs. Frederick Langford was glad to seek the tranquillity 
and repose of her own apartment ; but all the rest went in 
procession, greatly to the amusement of Fred and Henrietta, 
to the large barn-like building, where a narrow path led 
them along the front of the stalls of the gentle-looking, 
sweet-breathed cows, and the huge white-horned oxen. 

Uncle Roger (as always happened) monopolized his 
brother, and kept him estimating the weight of the great 
Devon ox, which was next for execution. Grandmamma 
was escorting Charlie and Arthur (whom their grandfather 
was wont to call “ penultimus ancl antepenultimus ”) help- 
ing them to feed the cows with turnips, and guarding them 
from going behind their heels. Henrietta was extremely 
happy, for grandpapa himself was doing the honors for 
her, and instructing her in the difference between a 
(^uerns^ cow and a short-horn ; and so was Alexander, for 
he had Queen Bee all to himself, in a remote corner of the 
cow-house, rubbing old spotted Nancy’s curly brow, catch- 
ing at her polished, black- tipped horn, and listening to his 
hopes and fears for the next half year. Not so Frederick, 
as he stood at the door with Jessie Carey, who, having no 
love for the cow-house, especially when in her best silk, 


198 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


though always ready to take care of the children there, 
was very glad to secure a companion outside, especially 
one so handsome, so much more polished than any of her 
cousins^ and so well able to reply to her small talk. Little 
did she guess how far off he wished her, or how he longed 
to be listening to his uncles, talking to Beatrice, sticking 
holly into the cows’ halters with John and Eichard, scram- 
bling into the hay-loft with Carey and William-^any where, 
rather than to be liable to the imputation of being too fine 
a gentleman to enter a cow-house. 

This accusation never entered the head of any one but 
himself ; but still an attack was in store for him. After a 
few words to Martin the cowman, and paying their re- 
spects to the pigs, the party left the farm-yard, and the 
Inhabitants of Sutton Leigh took the path to their own 
abode, while Beatrice turned round to her cousin, saying: 
“ Well, Fred, I congratulate you on your politeness I How 
well you endured being victimized !” 

“I victimized! How do you know I was not en- 
chanted?” 

“ Nay, you can’t deceive me while you have a transpar- 
ent face. Trust me for finding out whether you are bored 
or not. Besides, I would not pav so bad a compliment to 
your taste as to think otherwise.’’ 

‘ ‘ How do you know I was not exercising the taste of 
Eubens himself? I was actually admiring you all, and 
thinking how like it all was to that great print from one of 
his pictures; the building with its dark, gloomy roof, and 
open sides, the twilight, the solitary, dispersed snow- 
flakes, the haze of dust, the sleek cattle, and their long 
white horns.” 

“ Quite poetical,” said Queen Bee, in a short, dry, satir- 
ical manner. “ How charmed Jessie must have been 1” 

“Why?” said Fred, rather provoked. 

“ Such masterly eyes are not common among our young 
gentlemen. You will be quite her phenix: and how much 
‘ Thomson’s Seasons ’ you will have to hear 1 I dare say 
you have had it already : 

“ ‘ Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind!’ ” 

“Well, very good advice, too,” said Fred. 

“I hate and detest Thomson,” said Beatrice; “above 
all, for travestying Euth into ‘ the lovely young Lavinia;’ 
so whenever Jessie treated me to any or her quotations, I 
criticised him withoj^t mercy, and at last I said, by great 
good luck, that the only use of him was to serve as an im- 
position for young ladies at second-rate boarding-schools. 
It was a capital hit, but Alex found out that it was the 
way she learned so much of him, and since that time I 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 199 

have heard no more of ‘ Jemmy Thomson ! Jemmy Thom- 
son! O!’” 

The laughter which followed this speech had a tone in 
it which reaching Mr. Geoifrey Langford, who was walk- 
ing a little in front with his mother, made him suspect 
that the young people were getting into such spirits as 
were not quite Sunday-like ; and, turning round, he asked 
them some trifling question, which made him a party to 
the conversation, and brought it back to a quieter though 
not less merry tone. 

Dinner was at five, and Henrietta was dressed so late 
that Queen Bee had to come up to summon her, and bring 
her down after every one was in the dining-room— an 
entree all the more formidable because Mr. Franklin was 
dining there, as well as Uncle Roger and Alexander. 

Thanks in some degree to her own dawdling, she had 
been in a hurry the whole day, and longed for a quiet 
evening; but here it seemed to her, as with the best in- 
tentions it usually is in a large party, that, but for the 
laying aside of needlework, of secular books and secular 
music, it might as well have been any other day of the 
week. 

Her mamma was very tired, and went to bed before tea, 
the gentlemen had a long talk over the fire, the boys and 
Beatrice laughed and talked, and she helped her grand- 
mamma to hand about the tea, answered her questions 
about her mother’s health and habits, and heard a good 
deal that interested her, but still she could not feel as if it 
were Sunday. At Rocksand she used to sit for many a 
pleasant hour, either in the darkening summer twilight, or 
the bright red light of the winter fire, repeating or singing 
hymns, and enjoying the most delightful talks that the 
whole week had to offer, and now she greatly missed the 
conversation that would have “ set this strange week to 
rights in her head,” as she said to herself. 

She thought over it a good deal whilst Bennet was brush- 
ing her hair at night, feeling as if it had been a week-day, 
and as if it would be as difficult to begin a new, fresh week 
on Monday morning, as it would a new day after sitting up 
a whole night. How far this was occasioned by Knight 
Sutton habits, and how far it was her own fault, was not 
what she asked herself, though she sat up for a long time 
musing on the change in her way of life, and scarcely able 
to believe that it was only last Sunday that she had been 
sitting with her mother over their fire at Rocksand. 
Enough had happened for a whole month. Her darling 
project was fulfilled ; the airy castle of former days had 
become a substance, and she was inhabiting it ; and was 
she really so very much happier? There she went into a 


200 


HENRIETTA'S WISH 


reverie— but— but musing is not meditating, nor vague 
dreamings wholesome reflections; she went on sitting 
there, chiefly for want of energy to move, till the fire- 
burned low, the clock struck twelve, and Mrs. Frederick 
Langford exclaimed, in a sleepy voice, “ My dear, are you 
gone to sleep there?” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Breakfast was nearly over on Monday morning, when a 
whole party of the Sutton Leigh boys entered with the in- 
telligence that the great pond in Knight’s Portion was 
quite frozen over, and that skating might begin without 
I0.SS of time. 

“You are coming, are you not, Bee?” said Alex, leaning 
over the back of her chair. 

“ Oh, yes,” said she, nearly whispering, “ only take care. 
It is taboo there ” — and she made a sign with her head to- 
ward Mrs. Langford, “ and don’t frighten Aunt Mary about 
Fred. Oh, it is too late, Carey’s doing the deed as fast as 
he can.” 

Carey was askii^ Fred whether he had ever skated, or 
could skate, and Fred was giving an account of his ex- 
ploits in that line at school, hoping it might prove to his 
mother that he might be trusted to take care of himself 
since he had dared the danger before. In vain; the 
alarmed expression had come over her face as she asked 
Alexander whether his father had looked at the ice. 

“No,” said Alex, “but it is perfectly safe. I tried it 
this morning, and it is as firm as this marble chimney- 
piece.” 

“ He is pretty well to be trusted,” said his grandfather, 
“ more especially as it would be difficult to get drowned 
there.” 

“ I would give a shilling to any one who could drown 
himself there,” said Alex. 

“The traveling man did,” exclaimed at once Carey, 
John, and Richard. 

“Don’t they come in just like the Greek chorus?” said 
Beatrice, in a whisper to Fred, who gave a little laugh, but 
was too anxious to attend to her. 

“ I thought he was drowned in the river,” said Alex. 

“No, it was in the deep pool under the weeping wil- 
low, where the duckweed grows so rank in summer,” said 
Carey. 

Uncle Geoffrey laughed. “ I am sorry to interfere with 
your romantic embellishments, Carey, or with the credit 
of j^our beloved pond, since you are determined not to 
leave it behindhand with its neighbors.” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


201 


“ I always thought it was there,” said the boy. 

“ And thought wrong ; the poor man was found in the 
river two miles off.” 

‘‘I always heard it was at Knight’s Pool,” repeated 
Carey. 

” I do not know what you may have heard,” said Uncle 
Geoffrey; “but as it happened a good while before you 
were born, I think you had better not argue the point.” 

“ Grandpapa,” persisted Carey, “ was it not in Knight’s , 
Pool?” 

“ Certainly not,” was the answer dryly given. 

“ Well,” continued Carey, “I am sure you might drown 
yourself there.” 

“Rather than own yourself mistaken,” said Uncle 
Geoffrey. 

“ Carey, Carey, I hate contradiction, ” said grandmamma, 
rising and rustling past where he stood with a most absurd, 
dogged, unconvinced face. “ Take your arm off the man- 
tel-piece, let that china cup alone, and stand like a gentle- 
man. Do!” 

“All in vain 1” said Beatrice. “To the end of his life he 
will maintain that Knight’s Pool drowned the traveling 
man!” 

“Well, never mind,” said John, impatiently, “are Ave 
coming to skate this morning, or are we not?” 

“I really wish,” said Aunt Mary, as if she could not 
help it, “without distrusting either old Knight’s Pool or 
your judgment, Alexander, that you would ask some one 
to look at it. ’ ’ 

“I should like just to run down and see the fun,” said 
Uncle Geoffrey, thus setting all parties at rest for the mo- 
ment. The tAvo girls ran joyfully up to put on their bon- 
nets, as Henrietta wished to see, Beatrice to join in, the 
sport. At that instant Mrs. Langford asked her son Geof- 
frey to remove some obstacle which hindered the comfort- 
able shutting of the door, and though a servant might just 
as Avell have done it, he readily complied, according to his 
constant habit of making all else give way to her, replying 
to the discomfited looks of the boys, “ I shall be ready by 
the time the young ladies come doAvn.” 

So he Avas, long before Henrietta was ready, and just as 
she and Beatrice appeared on the stairs, Atkins was carry- 
ing across the hall Avhat the boys looked at with glances of 
dismay, namely, the post-bag. Knight Sutton, being small 
and remote, did not possess a post-office, but a messenger 
came from Allonfield for the letters on every day except 
Sunday, and returned again in the space of an hour. A 
very inconvenient arrangement, as every one had said for 


203 HENRIETTA'S WISH. 

the last twenty years, and might probably say for twenty 
years more. 

As usual, more than half the contents were for G. Lang- 
ford, Esq., and Fred’s face grew longer and longer as he 
saw the closely- written business-like sheets. 

“Fred, my poor fellow,” said his uncle, looking up, “I 
am sorry for you, but one or two must be answered by this 
day’s post. I will not be longer than I can help.” 

“Then do let us come on,” exclaimed the chorus. 

“Come Queenie,” added Alex. 

She delayed, however, saying, “Can I do any good, 
papa?” 

“ Thank you, let me see. I do not like to stop you, but 
it would save time if you could just copy a letter.” 

“ Oh, thank you, pray let me,” said Beatrice, delighted. 
“ Go on, Henrietta, I shall soon come.” 

Henrietta would have waited, but she saw a chance of 
speaking to her brother, which she did not like to lose. 

Her mother had taken advantage of the various con- 
versations going on in the hall, to draw her son aside, say- 
ing, “Freddy, I believe you think me very troublesome, 
but do let me entreat of you not to venture on the ice till 
one of your uncles has said it is safe.” 

“Uncle Eoger trusts Alex,” said Fred. 

“ Yes, but he lets all those boys take their chance, and a 
number of you together are likely to be careless, and I 
know there used to be dangerous places in that pond. I 
will not detain you, my dear,” added she, as the others 
were preparing to start, “only I beg you will not attempt 
to skate till your uncle comes.” 

“Very well,” said Frederick, in a tone of as much an- 
noyance as ever he showed his mother, and with little sus- 
picion how much it cost her not to set her mind at rest 
by exacting a promise from him. This she had resolutely 
forborne to do in cases like the present, from his earliest 
days, and she had her reward in the implicit reliance she 
could place on his word when once given. And now, sigh- 
ing that it had not been voluntarily offered, she went to her 
sofa, to struggle and reason in vain with her fears, and start 
at each approaching step, lest it should bring the tidings of 
some fatal accident, all the time blaming herself for the en- 
treaties which might, as she dreaded, place him in peril of 
disobedience. 

In a few moments Mr. Geoffrey Langford was sitting in 
the great red leathern chair in the study, writing as fast as 
his fingers would move, apparently without a moment for 
thought, though he might have said, like the great painter, 
that what seemed the work of ^ alf an hour, was in fact the 
labor of years. His daughter, * bonnet by her side, sat op- 


BENRIJiJTTA^S mSH. SOa 

posite to him, writing with almost equal rapidity, and su- 
premely happy, for to the credit of our little Queen Bee let it 
be spoken, that no talk with Henrietta, no wadk with grand- 
papa, no new exciting tale, no, not even a flirtation witli 
Fred and Alex, one or both, was equal in her estimation 
to the pleasure and honor of helping papa, even though it 
was copying a dry legal opinion, instead of gliding about 
on the smooth hard ice, in the bright winter morning’s 
sunshine. 

The two pens maintained a duet of diligent scratching 
for some twenty or five-and-twenty minutes without inter- 
mission, but at last Beatrice looked up, and, without speak- 
ing, Ifeld up the sheet. 

“Already? Thank you, my little clerk, I could think it 
was mamma. Now, then^ off to the skating. My compli- 
ments to Fred, and tell him I feel for him, and will not 
keep him waiting longer than I can avoid;” and muttering 
a resumption of his last sentence, on went the lawyer’s 
indefatigable pen ; and away flew the merry little Busy 
Bee, bounding off with her droll, tripping, elastic, short- 
stepped run, which suited so well wuth her little alert fig- 
ure, and lier dress, a small, plain, black velvet bonnet, a 
tight black velvet “ jacket,” as she called it, and a brown 
Silk dress, with narrow yellow stripes— chosen chiefly in 
joke, because it was the color of a bee— not a bit of super- 
fluous shawl, bow, or ribbon about her, but all close and 
compact, fit for the diversion which she was eager to enjoy. 
The only girl among so many boys, she had learned to share 
in many of their sports, and one of the prime favorites was 
skating, a diversion which owes as much of its charm to 
the caprices of its patron. Jack Frost, as to the degree of 
skill which it requires. 

She arrived at the stile leading to “Knight’s Portion,” 
as it was called, and a very barren portion must the poor 
knight have possessed if it was all his property. It was a 
sloping chalky field, or rather corner of a down, covered 
with very short grass and thistles, which defied all the 
attacks of Uncle fioger and his sheep. On one side was a 
sort of precipice, where the chalk had been dug away, and 
a rather extensive old chalk -pit formed a tolerable pond, 
by the assistance of the ditch at the foot of the hedge. On 
the glassy surface already marked by many a sharply- 
traced circular line, the Sutton Leigh boys were careering, 
the younger ones with those extraordinary bends, twists, 
and contortions to which the unskillful are driven in order 
to preserve their balance. Frederick and Henrietta stood 
on the brink, neither of them looking particularly cheer- 
ful ; but both turned gladly at the sight of the Busy Bee, 
and came to meet her with eager inquiries for her papa. 


BENRIETTA'S WISB, 


m 

She was avory welcome sight to both, especially Henri- 
etta, who had from the first felt almost out of place alone 
with all those boys, and who hoped that she would be some 
comfort to poor Fred, who had been entertaining her with 
every variety of grumbling for the last half hour, and per- 
versely refusing to walk out of sight of the forbidden 
pleasure, or to talk of anything else. Such a conversation, 
as she was wishing for, was impossible, whilst he was con- 
stantly calling out to the others, and exclaiming at their 
adventures, and in the intervals lamenting his own hard 
fate, scolding her for her slowness in dressing, which had 
occasioned the delay, and magnifying the loss of hi^pleas- 
ure, perhaps in a sort of secret hope that the temptation 
would so far increase as to form in his eyes an excuse for 
yielding to it. Seldom had he shown himself so unamiable 
toward her, and with great relief and satisfaction she be- 
held her cousin descending the steep, slippery path from 
the height above, and while the cloud began to lighten on 
his brow, she thought to herself, “ It will be all right now, 
he is always happy with Busy Bee !’ ’ 

So he might have been had Beatrice been sufficiently un- 
selfish for once to use her influence in the right direction, 
and surrender an amusement for the sake of another ; bi»t 
to give up or defer such a pleasure ds skating with Alex 
never entered her mind, though a moment’s reflection 
might have shown her how much more annoying the pri- 
vation would be rendered by the sight of a girl fearlessly 
enjoying the sport from which he was debarred. It would, 
perhaps, be judging too hardly to reckon against her as a 
fault that her grandmamma could not bear to hear of any 
thing so “boyish” and had long ago entreated her to be 
more like a young lady. There was no positive order in 
this case, and her papa and mamma did not object. So she 
eagerly answered Alexander’s summons, fastened on her 
skates, and soon was gliding merrily on the surface of the 
Knight’s Pool, while her cousins watched her dexterity 
with surprise and interest ; but soon Fred once more grew 
gloomy, sighed, groaned, looked at his watcli, and recom- 
menced his complaints. At first she had occupation 
enough in attending to her own security to bestow any at- 
tention on other things, but in less than a quarter of. an 
hour, she began to feel at her ease, and her spirits rising 
to the pitch where consideration is lost, she ‘’could not 
help,” in her own phrase, laughing at the disconsolate 
Fred. 

“How wobegone he looks!” said she, as she whisked 
past, “ but never mind, Fred, the post must go some time 
or other.” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH 


205 


“It must be gone,” said Fred. “I am sure we have 
been here above an hour 

“ Henrietta looks blue with cold, like an old hen obliged 
to follow her ducklings to the water!” observed Beatrice, 
again gliding near, and in the midst of her next circular 
sweep she chanted : 

“ Although their feet are pointed, and my feet are round, 

Pray, is that any reason why I should be drowned?” 

It was a great aggravation of Fred’s calamities to be 
obliged to laugh, nor were matters mended by the sight of 
the party now advancing from the house, Jessie Carey, 
with three of the lesser boys. 

“What news of Uncle Geoffrey?” 

“ I did not see him,” said Jessie; “ I think he was in the 
study, Uncle Roger went to him there.” 

“ No hope then?” muttered the unfortunate Fred. 

“Can’t you skate, Fred?” asked little Arthur, with a 
certain most provoking face of wonder and curiosity. 

“ Presently,” said Fred. 

“He must not,” cried Richard, in a tone which Fred 
thought malicious, though it was only rude, 

“ Must not?” and Arthur looked up in amazement to the 
boy so much taller than his three brothers, creatures in his 
eyes privileged to do what they pleased. 

“ His mamma won’t let him,” was Dick’s polite answer. 
Fred could have knocked him down with the greatest sat- 
isfaction, but in the first place he was out of reach, in the 
second the young ladies were present, in the third, he was 
a little boy, and a stupid one, and Fred had temper enough 
left to see that there would be nothing gained by quarrel- 
ing with him, so contenting himself with a secret but most 
ardent wish that he had him as his fag at school, he 
turned to Jessie, and asked her what she thought of the 
weather, if the white frost would bring rain, etc. 

Jessie thought the morning too bright not to be doubtful, 
and the hoar frost was so very thick and white that it was 
not likely to continue much longer. 

“ How beautiful these delicate white crests are to every 
thorn in the hedge!” said Henrietta; “and look, these 
pieces of chalk are almost cased in glass.” 

“ Oh, I do love such a sight!” said Jessie. “ Here is a 
beautiful bit of stick crusted over.” 

“ It is a perfect little Giant’s Causeway,” said Henrietta; 
“do look at. these lovely little columns, Fred.” 

“ Ah!” said Jessie, 

“ Myriads of little salts, or hook’d or shaped 
, Like double wedges ” 

She thought Beatrice safe out of hearing, but that very 


206 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


moment by she came, borne swiftly along, and catching 
the cadence of that one line, looked archly at Fred, and 
shaped with her lips rather than uttered— 

“O, Jemmy Thomson! Jemmy Thomson, O!” 

It filled up the measure. That Beatrice, Alexander and 
chorus should be making him a laughing-stock, and him 
pinned to Miss Carey’s side, was more than he could en- 
dure. He had made up his mind that Uncle Geoffrey was 
not coming at all, his last feeble hold of patience and obe- 
dience gave way, and he exclaimed, “Well, I sha’n’t wait 
any longer, it is not of the least use.” 

“O, Fred, consider!” said his sister. 

“That’s right, Freddy,” shouted Carey, “he’ll not come 
now. I’ll answer for it.” 

“You know he promised he would,” pleaded Henrietta. 

“ Uncle Roger has got hold of him, and he is as bad as 
the old man of the sea,” said Fred; “the post has been 
gone this half hour, and I shall not wait any longer.” 

“Think of mamma.” 

“How can you talk such nonsense, Henrietta,” ex- 
claimed Fred, impatiently, “do you think that I am so 
awfully heavy that the ice that bears them must needs 
break with me?” 

“ I do not suppose there is any danger,” said Henrietta, 

“ but for the sake of poor mamma’s entreaties!” 

“ Ho you think I am going to be kept in leading-strings 
all the rest of my life?” said Fred, obliged to work himself 
into a passion in order to silence his sister and his con- 
science. “ I have submitted “to such absurd nonsense a 
great deal too long already, I will not be made a fool of in 
the sight of everybody ; so here goes !’ ’ 

And breaking away from her detaining arm, he ran down 
to the verge of the pond, and claimed the skates which he 
had lent to John. Henrietta turned away, her eyes full of 
tears. 

“Never mind, Henrietta,” shouted the good-natured 
Alexander. “ I’ll engage to fish him out if he goes in.” 

“It is as likely I may fish you out, Mr. Alex,” returned 
Fred, slightly affronted. 

“ Or more likely still there will be no fishing in the case,” 
said the naughty little siren, who felt all the time a secret 
satisfaction in the consciousness that it was she who had 
made the temptation irresistible, then adding, to pacify 
Henrietta and her own feelings of compunction, “Aunt 
Mary must be satisfied when she hears with what ex- 
emplary patience he waited till papa was past hope, and 
the pond past fear.” 

Whether Alex smiled at the words “past fear,” or 
whether Fred only thought he did is uncertain; the effect 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


207 


was that he exclaimed, “ I only wish there was a place in 
this pond that you did not like to skate over, Alex.” 

“ Well, there is one,” said Alex, laughing, ” where Carey 
drowns the traveling man— there is a spring there, and the 
ice is never so firm, so you may try ” 

“ Don’t, Fred— I beg you won’t!” cried Beatrice. 

“ O, Fred, Fred, think, think if anything should hap- 
pen!” implored Henrietta. 

“ I sha’n’t look, I can’t bear it,” exclaimed Jessie, turn- 
ing away. 

Fred without listening skated triumphantly toward the 
hedge and across the perilous part, and fortunately it was 
without disaster. In the midst of the shout of applause 
with which the chorus celebrated his achievement, a gate 
in the hedge suddenly opened, and the two uncles stood be- 
fore them. The first thing Uncle Geoffrey did was to take 
a short run, and slide right across the middle of the pond, 
while Uncle Koger stood by laughing and saying, “Well 
done, Geoffrey, you are not quite so heavy as I am.” 

Uncle Geoffrey reaching the opposite side caught up lit- 
tle Charley by the arms and whirled him round in the air, 
then shouted in a voice that had all the glee and blithe ex- 
ultation of a boy just released from school, “ I hereby cer- 
tify to all whom it may concern, the pond is franked. 
Where’s Fred?” 

Fred wished himself anywhere else, and so did Henri- 
etta. Even Queen Bee’s complacency gave way before her 
father, and it was only Alexander who had spirit to an- 
swer, “We thought you were not coming at all.” 

“Indeed!” said Uncle Geoffrey; and little Willy ex- 
claimed, “Why, Alex, Uncle Geoffrey always comes when 
he promises,” a truth to which every one gave a mental 
assent. 

Without taking the smallest notice of Frederick by word 
or lool:. Uncle Geoffrey proceeded to join the other boys, 
to the ^reat increase of their merriment, instructing them 
in making figures of eight, and in all the other mysteries 
of the skating art, which they could scarcely enjoy more 
than he seemed to do. Henrietta, cold and unhappy, 
grieved at her brother’s conduct, and still more grieved at 
the displeasure of her uncle, wished to return to the house, 
yet could not make up her mind to do so, for fear of her 
mamma’s asking about Fred; and whilst she was still 
doubting and hesitating, the church bells began to ring, re- 
minding her of the saint’s day service, one of the delights 
of Knight Sutton to which she had so long looked forward. 
Yet here was another disappointment. The uncles and the 
two girls immediately prepared to go. Jessie said she 
must take Arthur and Charley home, and set off. The boys 


208 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


could do as they pleased, and Willy holding Uncle Geof- 
frey’s hand was going with him, but the rest continued 
their sport, and among them Fred. He had never dis- 
obeyed a church bell before, and had rather not have done 
so now, but as he saw none of his male companions setting 
off, he fancied that to attend a week-day service in the 
holidays might be reckoned a girlish proceeding, imagined 
his cousins laughing at him as soon as his back was turned, 
and guessed from Uncle Geoffrey’s grave looks that he 
might be taken to task when no longer protected by the 
presence of the rest. 

He therefore replied with a gruff, short “No,” to his 
sister’s anxious question whether he was not coming, and 
flourished away to the other end of the pond, but a few 
seconds after he was not a little surprised and vexed at 
finding himself mistaken after all — at least so far as re- 
garded Alex, who had been only going on with his sport 
to the last moment, and now, taking off his skates, vaulted 
over the gate, and ran at full speed after the rest of the 
party, overtaking them before they reached the village. 

Henrietta was sadly disappointed when, looking round 
at the sound of footsteps, she saw him instead of her 
brother. His refusal to goto church grieved her more than 
his disobedience, on which she did not in general look with 
sufficient seriousness, and for which in the present case 
there were many extenuating circumstances, which she 
longed to plead to Uncle Geoffrey, who would, she thought, 
relax in his severity toward her poor Fred, if he knew how 
long he had waited, and how much he had been teased. 
This, however, she could not tell him without complain 
ing of his daughter, and in fact it was an additional pain 
that Queen Bee should have used all her powerful influence 
in the wrong direction. 

It was impossible to be long vexed with the little Busy 
Bee, even in such circumstances as these, especially when 
she came up to her, put her arm into hers, and looked into 
her face with all the sweetness that could sometimes reside 
in those brown features of hers, saying, “Iviy poor Henri- 
etta, I am afraid we have been putting you to torture all 
this time, but you know that it is quite nonsense to be 
afraid of anything happening.” 

“ Oh, yes, I know that, but really, Queenie, you should 
not have persuaded him.” 

“I? Well, I believe it was rather naughty of me to 
laugh at him, for persuade him I did not, but if you had 
but seen him in the point I did, and known how absurd you 
two poor disconsolate creatures looked, you would not have, 
been able to help it. And how was I to know that he 
would go into the only dangerous place he could find, just 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


209 


by way of bravado? I could have beaten myself when I 
saw that, but it’s all safe, and no harm done.” 

“There is your papa displeased with him.” 

“Oh, I will settle that; I will tell him it was half of it 
my fault, and beg him to say nothing about it. And as 
for Fred, I should like to make a charade of foolhardy, 
with a personal application. Did you ever act a charade, 
Henrietta?” 

“ Never; I scarcely know what it is.” 

“Oh, charming, charming! What rare fun we will 
have. I wish I had not told you of foolhardy, for now we 
can’t have that, but this evening, oh, this evening, I am no 
Queen Bee if you do not see what will amaze you ! Alex ! 
Alex! Where is the boy? I must speak to you this in- 
stant!” 

Pouncing upon Alexander, she drew him a little behind 
the others, and was presently engaged in an eager, low- 
voiced conference, apparently persuading him to some- 
thing much against his inclination, but Henrietta was not 
sufficiently happy to bestow much curiosity on the sub- 
ject. All her thoughts were with Fred, and she had not 
long been in church before all her mother’s fears seemed 
to have passed to her. Her mother had recovered her 
serenity, and was able to trust her boy in the hands of his 
Heavenly Father, while Henrietta, haunted by the remem- 
brance of many a moral tale, was tormenting herself with 
the expectation of retribution, and dwelling on a fancied 
figure of her brother lifted senseless out of the water, with 
closed eyes and dripping hair. 


CHAPTER IX. 

With all her faults. Queen Bee was a good-natured, gen- 
erous little thing, and it was not what every one would 
have done, when, as soon as she returned from church, 
she followed her father to the study, saying: “ Papa, you 
must not be displeased with Fred, for he was very much 
plagued, and he only had just begun when you came.” 

“ The other boys had been teasing him?” 

“ Dick had been laughing at him, saying his mamma 
would not let him go on the ice, and that, you know, was 
past all bearing. And honestly, it was my fault too; ,I 
laughed, not at that joke, of course, for it was only worthy 
of Dick himself, but at poor Fred’s own disconsolate looks. ” 

“ Was not his case unpleasant enough, without your 
making it worse?” 

“Of course, papa, I ought to have been more consider- 
ate, but you know how easily I am run away with by high 
spirits. ’ ’ 


210 


HENRIETTA'S WISH 


“And I know you have the power to restrain them, 
Beatrice. You have no right to talk of being run away 
with, as if you were helpless. ” 

“ I know it is very wrong; I often think I will check my- 
self, but there are many speeches which, when once they 
come to my lips, are irresistible, or seem so. However, I 
will not try to justify myself. I know I was to blame, 
only you must not be angry with Fred, for it really did 
seem rather unreasonable to keep him there parading about 
with Henrietta and Jessie, when the ice was quite safe for 
everybody else.” 

“I am not angry with him. Bee; I cannot but be sorry 
that he gave way to the temptation, but there was so much 
to excuse him, that I shall not show any further displeas- 
ure. He is ohen in a very vexatious position for a boy 
of his age. I can imagine nothing more galling than these 
restraints.” 

“ And cannot you ” said Beatrice, stopping short. 

“Speak to your aunt? I will not make her miserable. 
Anything she thinks right she will do, at whatever cost to 
herself, and for that very reason I will not interfere. It is 
a great deal better for Fred that his amusement should be 
sacrificed to her peace,. than her peace to his amusement.” 

“Yet surely this cannot go on for life,” said Beatrice, as 
if she were half afraid to hazard the remark. 

“Never mind the future. She will grow more used to 
the other boys, and gain more confidence in Fred. Things 
will right themselves, if we do not set them wrong. And 
now, mark me. You are not a mere child, who can plead 
the excuse of thoughtlessness for leading him into mis- 
chief ; you know the greatness of the sin of disobedience, 
and the fearful responsibility incurred by conducing to it 
in others. Do not help to lead him astray for the sake of 
— of vanity— of amusement.” 

Something in the manner in which he pronounced these 
words conveyed to Beatrice a sense of the emptiness and 
and worthlessness of her motives, and she ansv/ered, ear- 
nestly : “I was wrong, papa ; I know it is a love of saying 
clever things that often leads me wrong. It was so to-day, 
for I could have stopped myself, but for the pleasure of 
making fun. It is vanity, and I will try to subdue it. ’ ’ 

« Beatrice had a sort of candid way of reasoning about her 
faults, and would blame herself, and examine her motives 
in a manner which disarmed • reproof by forestalling it. 
She was perfectly sincere, yet it was self-deception, for it 
was not as if it was herself T^^hom she was analyzing, but 
rather as if it was some character in a book ; indeed, she 
would have described herself almost exactly as she is here 
described, except that her delineation would have been 


HENRIETTA'S WISH 


211 


mucli more clever and more exact. She would not have 
spared herself— for this reason, that her own character 
was more a study to her than a reality, her faults rather 
circumstances than sins ; it was her mind, rather than her 
soul, that reflected and made resolutions, or more correctly, 
what would have been resolutions, if they had possessed 
any real earnestness, and not been done, as it were, mechan- 
ically, because they became the occasion. 

The conversation was concluded by the sound of the 
luncheon bell, and she ran up to take off her bonnet, her 
thoughts taking the following course : “I am very sorry; 
it is too bad to tease poor Fred, cruel and wrong, and all 
that, only if he would not look absurd ! It is too droll to see 
how provoked he is, when I take the least notice of Alex, 
and after all, I don’t think he cares for me half as much as 
Alex does, only it flatters his vanity. Those great boys are 
really quite as vain as girls; not Alex, though, good down- 
right fellow, who would do anything for me, and I have 
put him to a hard proof to-night. What a capital thought 
those charades are ! Fred will meet the others on common, 
nay, on superior ground, and there will be none of these 
foolish questions who can be most manly mad. Fred is 
really a flne-spirited fellow though, and I thought papa 
could not find it in his heart to be angry with him. How 
capitally he will act, and how lovely Henrietta will look ! 
I must make them take to the charades, it will be so very 
delightful, and keep Fred quite out of mischief, which will 
set Aunt Mary at ease. And how amused grandpapa will 
be! What shall it be to-night? What Alex can manage 
to act tolerably. Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute, and 
the premier pas must be with our best foot foremost. I 
give myself credit for the thought; it will make all 
smooth.” 

These m sditations occupied her during a hasty toilet and 
a still more rapid descent, and were abruptly concluded 
by her alighting from her swinging jump down the last 
four steps close to Fred himself, who was standing by the 
hall fire with a gloomy expression of countenance, which 
with inconsiderate good-nature she hastened to remove. 
“ Don’t look dismal, Freddy; I have told papa all about it, 
and he does not mind it. Cheer up, you adventurous 
knight, I have some glorious fun for you this evening.” 

Not mind it 1 The impression thus conveyed to one but 
too willing to receive it, was that Uncle Geoffrey, that ex- 
ternal conscien(;e, thought him excused from attending to 
unreasonable prohibitions. Away went all the wholesome 
self-reproach which he had begun to feel, away went all 
fear of Uncle Geoffrey’s eye, all compunction in meeting 
his mother, and he entered the dining-room in such lively 


212 


HENRIETTAS WISH. 


spirits that his uncle was vexed to see him so unconcerned, 
and his mother felt sure that her entreaty had not been dis- 
regarded. She never heard to the contrary, for she liked 
better to trust than to ask questions, and he, like far too 
many boys, did not think concealment blamable where 
there was no actual falsehood. 

All the time they were at table Queen Bee was in one of 
her states of wild restlessness, and the instant she was at 
liberty, she flew away, and was seen no more that after- 
noon, except in certain flittings into different apartments, 
where she appeared for a moment or two with some extraor- 
dinary and mysterious request. First, she popped upon 
grandpapa, and with the expense of a little coaxing and 
teasing, obtained from him the loan of his deputy- lieu- 
tenant’s uniform ; then she darted into the drawing-room, 
on hearing Uncle Eoger’s voice, and conjured him not to 
forget to give a little note to Alex, containing these words : 
“ Willy must wear his cap without a peak. Bring Eoger’s 
dirk, and, above all, beg, borrow, or steal. Uncle Eoger’s 
fishing-boots. ’ ’ Her next descent was upon Aunt Mary, in 
her own room: “Aunt, would you do me a great favor, 
and ask no questions, nor tell Henrietta? Do just lend me 
the three little marabout feathers which you had in your 
cap yesterday evening. Only for this one evening, and I’ll 
take great care.” 

“ I am sure, my dear, you are very welcome to them; I 
do not feel like myself in such finery,” said Mrs. Frederick 
Langford, smiling, as Beatrice took possession of the ele- 
gant little white cap, which she had the discretion to carry 
to Bennet, its lawful protector, to be reft of its plumed 
honors. Bennet, an old friend of nursery days, was in 
the secret of her plans for the evening ; her headquarters 
were in the workroom, which had often served her as a 
playroom in days gone by, and Judith, gratified by a visit 
from “Miss Bee,” dived for her sake into boxes and 
draw'ers, amid hoards where none but Judith would have 
dared to rummage. 

All this might ultimately be for Henrietta’s entertain- 
ment, but at present it did not much conduce toward it, as 
she was left to her own resources in the drawing-room. 
She practiced a little, worked a little, listened to a con- 
sultation between grandpapa and Uncle Eoger about the 
new pig-sty, wrote it down in her list when they went into 
the study to ask Uncle Geoffrey’s advice, tried to talk over 
things in general with her mamma, but found it impossible 
with grandmamma continually coming in and out of the 
room, yawned, wondered what Busy Bee was about, felt 
deserted, gave up work, and had just found an entertain- 
ing book, when grandmamma came in, and invited her to 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


213 


visit the poultry -yard. She readily accepted, but for want 
of Queen Bee to hurry her, kept grandmamma waiting 
longer than she liked, and had more of a scolding than was 
agreeable. The chickens were all gone to roost by the time 
they arrived, the cock just peering down at them, with 
his coral-bordered eye, and the ducks waddling stealthily 
in, one by one; the feeding was ovei% the hen- wife gone, 
and Mrs. Langford vexed at being too late. 

Henrietta was annoyed with herself and with the result 
of the day, but she had some consolation, for as they 
were going toward the house they met Mr. Langford, who 
called out, “So you have been walking with grand- 
mamma! Well, if you are not tired, come and have a 
little turn with grandpapa. I am going to speak with 
Daniels, the carpenter, and my ‘ mer^ Christmas ’ will be 
twice as welcome to his old father, if 1 take you with me.” 

Henrietta might be a little tired, but such an invitation 
was not to be refused, and she was at her grandpapa’s side 
in an instant, thanking him so much that he laughed and 
said the favor was to him. “ I wish we had Fred here 
too,” said he, as they walked on, “ the old man will be very 
glad to see you.” 

“Was he one of mamma’s many admirers in the vil- 
lage?” 

‘ ‘ All the village admired Miss Mary, but it was your fa 
ther who was old Daniels’ chief friend. The boys used to 
have a great taste for carpentry, especially your father, 
who was always at his elbow when he was at work at the 
Hall. Poor old man, I thought he would never have held 
up his head again when our great trouble came on us. He 
used to touch his hat, and turn away without looking me 
in the face. And there you may see stuck up over the 
chimney-piece in his cottage the new chisel that your 
father gave him when he had broken his old one.” 

“ Dear old man!” said Henrietta, warmly, “ I am so very 
glad that we have come here, where people really care for 
us, and are interested in us, and not for our own sake. 
How delightful it is ! I feel as if we were come out of ban- 
ishment.” 

“Well, it is all the better for you,” said Mr. Langford; 
‘ ‘ if we had had you here, depend upon it, we should have 
spoiled you. We have so few granddaughters that we can- 
not help making too much of them. There is that little 
Busy Bee — by the bye, what is her plan this evening, or are 
not you in her secret?” 

“ Oh, no; I believe she is to surprise us all. I met her, 
just before I came out, dragging a huge bag after her ; I 
I wanted to help her, but she would not let me.” 

“She turns us all round her finger,” said grandpapa, 


214 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


“ I never found the person who could resist Queen Bee, ex- 
cept grandmamma. But I am glad you do not take after 
her, Henrietta, for one such grandchild is enough, and it 
is better for womankind to have leadable spirits than lead- 
ing.” 

“ O grandpapa!” 

“That is a dissentient O. What does it mean? Out 
with it.” 

“Only that I was thinking about weakness; I beg your 
pardon, grandpapa.” 

“Look here!” and Mr. Langford bent the slender cane in 
his hand (he disdained a stronger walking-stick) to its full 
extent of suppleness. “ Is this weak?” 

“No, it is strong in energv,” said Henrietta, laughing, 
as the elastic cane sprung back to its former shape. 

“Yet to a certain point you can bend it as far as you 
please. Well, that should be the way with you; be turned 
any way but the wrong, and let your own determination 
be only to keep upright.” 

“ But women are admired for influence.” 

“ Influence is a good thing in its way, but only of a good 
sort when it is unconscious. At any rate, when you set 
to work to influence people, take care it is only with a vieAv 
to their good, and not to your own personal wishes, or in- 
fluencing becomes a dangerous trade, especially for young 
ladies toward their elders. 

Grandpapa, who had only seen Henrietta carried about 
by Beatrice, grandmamma, or Fred, and willing to oblige 
them all, had little idea how applicable to her case was his 
general maxim, nor indeed did she at the moment take it 
to herself, although it was one day to return upon her. 
It brought them to the neat cottage of the carpenter, with 
the thatched workshop behind and the garden in front, 
which would have looked neat but for the melancholy 
aspect of the yellow, frost-bitten cabbages. 

This was Henrietta’s first cottage visit, and she was all 
eagerness and interest, picturing to herself a venerable old 
man, almost as fine looking as her grandfather, and as elo- 
quent as old men in cottages always are in books ; but she 
found it rather a disappointing meeting. It was a very 
nice, trim-looking daughter-in-law who opened the door, 
on Mr. Langford’s knock, and the room was neatness itself, 
but the old carpenter was not at all what she had im- 
agined. He was a little, stooping old man, with a shaking 
head, and weak red eyes under a green shade, and did not 
seem to have anything to say beyond “Yes, sir,” and 
“Thank you, sir,” when Mr. Langford shouted into his 
deaf ears some of the “ compliments of the season. ’ ’ Look- 
ing at the youn^ lady, whom he evidently mistook for 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


215 


Beatrice, he hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey were quite 
well. His face lighted up a little for a moment when Mr. 
Langford told him this was Mr. Frederick’s daughter, 
but it was only for an instant, and in a somewhat queru- 
lous voice he asked if there was not a young gentleman, 
too. 

“ O yes,” said Mr. Langford, “ he shall come and see you 
some day.” 

“ He would not care to see a poor old man,” said Daniels, 
turning a little away, while his daughter-in-law began to 
apologize for him by saying: “He is more lost than usual 
to-day, sir ; I think it was getting tired going to church, 
yesterday morning ; he did not sleep well, and he has been 
so fretful all the morning, a* body did not know what to do 
with him.” 

Mr. Langford said a few more cheerful words to the poor 
old man, then asked the daughter where her husband was, 
and, hearing that he was in the workshop, refused offers 
of fetching him in, and went out to speak to him, leaving 
Henrietta to sit by the fire and wait for him. A weary 
waiting time she found it; shy as she was of poor people, 
as of a class with whom she was utterly unacquainted, 
feeling bound to make herself agreeable, but completely 
ignorant how to set about it, wishing to talk to the old 
man, and fearing to neglect him, but finding conversation 
quite impossible except with Mrs. Daniels, and not very 
easy with her— she tried to recollect what storied young 
ladies did say to old men, but nothing she could think of 
would do, or was what she could feel herself capable of 
saying. At last she remembered, in “ Gertrude,” the old 
nurse’s complaint that Laura did not inquire after the 
rheumatism, and she hazarded her voice in expressing a 
hope that Mr. Daniels did not suffer from it. 

Clear as the sweet voice was, it was too tremulous (for 
she was really in a fright of embarrassment) to reach the 
old man’s ear, and his daughter-in-law took it upon her 
to repeat the inquiry in a shrill, sharp scream, that almost 
went through her ears ; then, while the old man was an- 
swering something in a muttering, maundering way, she 
proceeded with a reply, and told a long story about his 
ways with the doctor, in her Sussex dialect, almost in- 
comprehensible to Henrietta. The conversation dropped, 
until Mrs. Daniels began hoping that every one at the Hall 
was quite well, and as she inquired after them one by one, 
this took up a reasonable time: but then again follow^ a 
silence. Mrs. Daniels was not a native of Knight Sutton, 
or she would have had more to say about Henrietta’s 
mother ; but she had never seen her before, and had none 
of that interest in her that half the parish felt. Henrietta 


216 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


wished there had been a baby to notice, but she saw no 
trace in the room of the existence of children, and did not 
like to ask if there were any. She looked at the open 
hearth, and said it was very comfortable, and was told 
in return that it made a great draught, and smoked very 
much. Then she bethought herself of admiring an elabor- 
ately worked frame sampler that that hung against the 
wall; and the conversation this supplied lasted her till, to 
her great joy, grandpapa made his appearance again, and 
summoned her to return, as it was already growing very 
dark. 

She thought he might have made something of an 
apology for the disagreeableness of his friend ; but, being 
used to it, and forgetting that she was not, he did no such 
thing ; and she was wondering that cottage visiting could 
ever have been represented as so pleasant an occupation, 
when he began on a far more interesting subject, asking 
about her mother’s health, and how she thought Knight 
Sutton agreed with her, saying how very glad he was to 
have her there again, and how like his own daughter she 
had always been. He went on to tell of his first sight of 
his two daughters-in-law, when, little guessing that they 
would be such, he went to fetch home the little Mary 
Vivian, who had come from India under the care of Gen- 
eral St. Leger. “There they were,” said he; “I can 
almost see them now, as their black nurse led them in ; 
your aunt a brown little sturdy thing, ready to make ac- 
quaintance in a moment, and your mamma such a fair, ' 
shrinking, fragile morsel of a child, that I felt quite 
ashamed to take her among all my great scrambling boys. ” 

“Ah! mamma says her recollection is all in bits and 
scraps ; she recollects the ship, and she remembers sitting 
on your knee in a carriage; but she cannot remember 
either the parting with Aunt Geoffrey or the coming here.” 

“I do not remember about the parting with Aunt 
Geoffrey; they managed that in the nursery, I believe, 
but I shall never forget the boys receiving her — Fred and 
Geoffrey, T mean — for Roger was at school. How they ad- 
mired her like some strange curiosity, and played with her 
like a little girl with a new doll. There was no fear that 
they would be too rough with her, for they used to touch 
her as if she were made of glass. And what a turn out of 
old playthings there was in her service!” 

“That was when she was six,” said Henrietta, “and 
papa must have been ten.” 

“Yes, thereabouts, and Geoffrey a year younger. How 
they did pjet her ! and come down to all their old baby- 
plays again for her sake, till I was almost afraid that 
cricket and hockey would be given up and forgotten.” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


217 


“And were they?” 

“No, no, trust boys for that. Little Mary came to be 
looker-on, if she did not sometimes play herself. She was a 
distressed damsel, and they knight and giant, or dragon, or 
I cannot tell what, though many’s the time I have laughed 
over it. Whatever they pleased was she: never lived 
creature more without will of her own.” 

“Never,” responded Henrietta; but that for which Mr. 
Langford might commend his little Mary at seven years 
old, did not appear so appropriate a subject of observation 
in Mrs. Frederick Langford, and by her own daughter. 

“ Eh!” said her grandfather. Then answering his men 
tal objection in another tone, “Ay, ay, no will for her own 
pleasure; that depends more on you than on any one else.” 

“ I would do anj^thing on earth for her I” said Henrietta, 
feeling it from the bottom of her heart. 

“I am sure you would, my dear,” said Mr. Langford, 
“and she deserves it. There are few like her, and few 
that have gone through so much. To think of her as she 
was when last she was here, and to look at her now 1 Well, 
it won’t do to talk of it; but I thought when I saw her face 
yesterday, that I could see, as well as' believe, it was all for 
the best for her, as I am sure it was for us.” 

He was interrupted just as they reached the gate by the 
voice of his eldest son calling, “ Out late, sir,” and looking 
round, Henrietta saw what looked in the darkness like a 
long procession. Uncle and Aunt Eoger, and their niece, 
and all the boys, as far down as William, coming to the 
Hall for the regular Christmas dinner-party. 

Joining company, Henrietta walked with Jessie, and an- 
swered her inquiries whether she had got wet or cold in 
the morning; but it was in an absent manner, for she was 
all the time dwelling on what her grandfather had been 
saying. She was calling up in imagination the bright 
scenes of her mother’s j^outh; those delightful games of 
which she had so often heard, and which she could place 
in their appropriate setting now that she knew the scenes. 
She ran up to her room, where she found only Beiinet, her 
mother having dressed and gone down ; and sitting down 
before the fire, and resigning her curls to her maid, she 
let herself dwell on the ideas the conversation had called 
up, turning from the bright to the darker side. 

She pictured to herself the church, the open grave, her 
uncles and her grandfather round it, the villagers taking 
part in their grief, the old carpenter’s averted head— she 
thought what must have been the agony of the moment, 
of laying in his untimely grave one so fondly loved, on 
whom the world was just opening so brightly— and the 
young wife— the infant children— how fearful it must have 


218 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


been! “It was almost a cruel dispensation,” thoup^ht 
Henrietta. “O, how happy and bright we might have 
been 1 What would it not have been to hold by his hand, 
to have his kiss, to look for his smile 1 And mamma, to 
have had her in all her joyousness and blitheness, with no 
ill-health, and no cares! O, why was it not so? And yet 
grandpapa said it was for the best ! And in what a man- 
ner he did say it, as if hie really felt and saw, and knew 
the advantage of it ! To dear papa himself I know it was 
for the best, but for us, mamma, grandpapa — no, I never 
shall understand it. They were good before; why did 
they need punishment? Is this what is called saying ‘ Thy 
will be done ’ ? Then I shall never be able to say it, and 
yet I ought!” 

“Your head a little higher, if you please. Miss Hen- 
rietta,” said Bennet; “ it is that makes me so long dressing 
you, and your mamma has been telling me that I must get 
you ready faster.” 

Henrietta slightly raised her head for the moment, but 
soon let it sink again in her musings, and when Bennet re- 
minded her, replied, “ I can’t, Bennet, it breaks my neck. ” 
Her will was not with her mother’s, in a trifling matter 
of which the reasonableness could not but approve itself 
to her. How, then, was it likely to be bent to that of her 
Heavenly Parent, in what is above reason? 

The toilet was at length completed, and in time for her 
to be handed in to dinner by Alexander, an honor which 
she owed to Beatrice having already been secured by 
Frederick, who was resoved not to be again abandoned to 
Jessia Alex did not favor her with much conversation, 
partly because he was thinking with perturbation of the 
task set him for the evening, and partly because he was 
trying to hear what Queen Bee was saying to Fred, in the 
midst of tlie clatter of knives and forks, and the loud voice 
of Mr. Eoger Langford, which was enough to drown most 
other sounds. Some inquiries had been made about Mrs. 
Geoffrey Langford and her aunt. Lady Susan St. Leger, 
which had led Beatrice into a great lamentation for her 
mother’s absence, and from thence into a description of 
what Lady Susan exacted from her friends. “ Aunt Susan 
is a regular fidget,” said she; “ not such a fidget as some 
people,” with an indication to Mrs. Langford. ‘‘Some 
people are determined to make others comfortable in a 
way of their own, and that is a fidget to be regarded 
with considerable respect; but Aunt Susan’s fidgeting 
takes the turn of sacrificing the comfort of every one else 
to her own and her little dog’s.” 

“But that is very hard on Aunt Geoffrey,” said Fred. 

“ Frightfully. Any one who was less selfish would have 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 219 

insisted on mamma’s coming here, instead of which Aunt 
Susan only complains of her sister and brother, and every- 
body else, for going out of London, when she may be taken 
suddenly ill at any time. She is in such a nervous state, 
that Mr. Peyton cannot tell what might be the conse- 
quence,” said Beatrice, in an imitative tone, which made 
Fred laugh. 

“I am sure I should leave her to take care of herself,” 
said he. 

“So do the whole family except ourselves; they are all 
worn out bjr her querulousness, and are not particularly 
given to patience and unselfishness either. But mamma is 
really fond of her, because she was kind to her wlien she 
came home from India, and she manages to keep her quiet 
better than any one else can. She can very seldom resist 
mamma’s cheerful voice, which drives off half her nerves 
at once. You cannot think how funny it is to see how 
Aunt Amelia always seems to stroke the cat the wrong 
way, and mamma to smooth her down the right.” 

A lull in the conversation left these last words audible, 
and Mr. Langford said, “ What is that about stroking the 
cat, Queenie?” 

“ Oh, you are telling it all — oh, don’t. Bee!” cried Willy. 

And with certain jokes about cats and bags, which 
seemed excessively to discomfort Willy, who protested the 
cat was not in the bag at all— it was the partridges— the 
conversation drifted away again from the younger party. 

As soon as dinner was over, Beatrice again disappeared, 
after begging her grandmamma to allow the great Indian 
screen to remain as it at present stood, spread out so as to 
cut off one end of the room, where there was a door open- 
ing into the study. Behind this screen frequent rustlings 
were heard, with now and then a burst of laughing and 
whispering, and a sound of moving furniture, which so ex- 
cited Mrs. Langford, that, starting up, she exclaimed that 
she must go and see what they could be doing. 

“We are taking great care, grandmamma,” called Alex- 
ander. “ We won’t hurt it.” 

This, by showing that there was something to be hurt, 
was so far from reassuring her, that she Avould certainly 
have set out on a voyage of discovery, but for Mr. Lang- 
ford, who professed himself convinced that all was right, 
and said he would not have the Busy Bee disturbed. 

Slie came in to tea, bringing Alex and Willy with her— 
the latter, in a marvelous state of misery and excitement, 
longing to tell all himself, and yet in great terror lest the 
others should tell. 

4s “^oon as the tea was dispatched the three actors d^- 


220 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


parted, and presently there was a call from behind the 
screen, “Are you ready, good people?” 

“ Go it,” answered Carey. 

“Are the elders ready?” said Beatrice’s voice. 

“Papa, don’t go on talking to Uncle Geoffrey!” cried 
Willy. 

“Ay, ay, all attention,” said grandpapa. “Now for 
it.” 

The screen was folded back, and discovered Alex in a 
pasteboard crown, ermine tippet, and purple mantle, 
sitting enthroned with Beatrice (a tiara and feathers on 
her head) at his side, and kneeling before them a non- 
descript article, consisting chiefly of a fur cloak, a fur cap, 
adorned with a pair of gray squirrel cuffs, sewn inge- 
niously into the form of ears, a boa by way of tail, and an 
immense pair of boots. As uncle Geoffrey said, the cat 
was certainly out of the bag, and it proceeded in due form 
to take two real partridges from the bag, and present 
them to the king and princess in the name of the Marquis 
Carabbas. 

The kin^ and princess made some consultation as to who 
the marquis might be, the princess proposing to send for 
the peerage, and the king cross-examining puss in an in- 
credulous way, which greatly puzzled him, until at length 
he bethought himself of exclaiming, in a fierce manner, 
“I’ve told you the truth, Mr. King, and if you won’t be- 
lieve me, I can’t help it!” and walked off on his hind legs 
in as dignified and resentful a manner as his boots would 
let him; repairing to the drawing-room to have his ac- 
couterments admired, while the screeen was again spread 
in preparation for Scene II. 

Scene II. presented but a half-length, a shawl being hung 
in front, so as to conceal certain incongruities. A great 
arm-chair was wheeled close to the table, on which stood 
an aged black jack out of the hall, a quart measure, and a 
silver tankard ; while in the chair, a cushion on his head, 
and a great carving-knife held like a scepter in his hand, 
reclined Alex, his bulk enlarged by at least two pillows, 
over which an old long- breasted white satin waistcoat, em- 
broidered with silver, had with some difficulty been 
brought to meet. Before him stood a little figure in a cloth 
cap, set jauntily on one side, decorated with a fox’s brush, 
and with Mrs. Frederick Langford’s three feathers, and a 
coat bearing marvelous resemblance to Beatrice’s own 
black velvet spencer, crossed over one shoulder by a broad 
blue ribbon, which Henrietta knew full well. “Do thou 
stand for my father,” began this droll little shape, “and 
examine me in the particulars of my life. ’ ’ 

It wa«s not badly carried out ; Prince Henry, when he did 


HEKR TETTA WTSH. 


221 


not giggle, acted beautifully; and Falstaff really did very 
well, though his eyes were often directly downward, and 
the curious, by standing on tiptoe, obtained* not only a view 
of Prince Hars pink petticoat, but of a Shakespeare laid 
open on the floor ; and a very low bow on the part of the 
heir apparent, when about to change places with his fat 
friend, was strongly suspected of being for the purpose of 
turning over a leaf. It was with great spirit that the part- 
ing appeal was given, “ Banish fat Jack, and banish all the 
world !” And there was great applause when fat Jack and 
Prince Hal jumped up and drew the screen forward again; 
though Uncle Geoffrey and Aunt Mary were cruel enough 
to utter certain historical and antiquarian doubts as to 
whether the Prince of Wales was likely to wear the three 
feathers and ribbon of the garter in his haunts at East- 
cheap. 

In the concluding scene the deputy lieutenant’s uniform 
made a great figure, with the addition of the long-breasted 
Avalstcoat, a white scarf, and the white cockade, adorning 
Alex, who, with a boot- jack under his arm, looked as tall 
and as rigid as he possibly could, with a very low bow. 
which was gracefully returned by a roj^al personage in a 
Scottish bonnet, also" bearing the Avhite cockade, a tartan 
scarf, and the blue ribbon. Altogether Prince Charles Ed- 
ward and the Baron of Bradwardine stood confessed; the 
charter was solemnly' read, and the shoe pulled off, or sup- 
posed to be, as the lower screen still remained to cut off the 
view, and then the baron indulged in a lengthy yawn and 
stretch, while Prince Charlie, skipping into the midst of 
the audience, danced round Mr. Langford, asking if he had 
guessed it. 


CHAPTER X. 

Beatrice had not judged amiss when she thought cha- 
rade acting an amusement likely to take the fancy of her 
cousins. The great success of her hoot-jack inspired both 
Frederick and Henrietta with eagerness to imitate it; and 
nothing was talked of but what Avas practicable in the Avay 
of scenes. Avords, and decorations. The Sutton Leigh party 
Avere to dine at the Hall again on Thursday, and it was re- 
solved that there should be a great charade, with all the 
splendor that due preparation could bestoAv upon it. “It 
was such an amusement to grandpapa. ” as Beatrice told 
Henrietta, “ and it occupied Fred so nicely,” as she said to 
lier father; both which observations being perfectly true, 
Mr. Geoffrey I^angford w^as A^ery willing to promote the 
sport, and to tranquilize his mother respecting the disar- 
rangement of her furniture. 


222 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


But what should the word be? Every one had predilec- 
tions of their own — some for comedy, others for tragedy ; 
some for extemporary acting, others for Shakespeare. 
Beatrice, with her eye for drawing, already grouped her 
dramatis per sonoe, so as to display Henrietta's picturesque 
face and figure to the grandest advantage, and had designs 
of making her and Fred I'epresent Catherine and Henry 
Seyton, whom, as she said, she had always believed to be 
exactly like them. Fred was inclined for “ another touch 
at Prince Hal,” and devised numerous ways of acting 
Anonymous, for the sake of “ Anon, anon, sir.” Henrietta 
wanted to contrive something in whicli Queen Bee might 
appear as an actual fairy bee, and had very pretty visions 
of making her a beneficent spirit in a little fanciful o^ra, 
for which she had written three or four verses, when Fred 

E ut an end to it by pronouncing it ‘ ‘ nonsense and hum- 
ug.” 

So passed Tuesday, without coming to any decision, and 
Henrietta was beginning to fear that they would never fix 
at all, when on Wednesday morning Beatrice came down 
in an ecstasy with the news, that by some chance a wig of 
her papa’s was in the house, and a charade they must and 
would have which would bring in the wig. “Come and 
see it,” said she, drawing her two cousins into the study 
after breakfast ; the study being the safest place for hold- 
ing counsel on these secret subjects. ‘ ‘ There now, is it not 
charming? Oh, a law charade we must have, that is cer- 
tain !” 

Fred and Henrietta, who had never chanced to see a bar- 
rister’s wig before, were greatly diverted with its little 
tails, and tried it on in turn. Whilst Henrietta was in the 
midst of her laugh at the sight of her own fair ringlets 
hanging out below the tight gray rolls, the door suddenly 
opened, and gave entrance to its owner, fiercely exclaim- 
ing: ” What! nothing safe from you, you impertinent kit- 
tens?” 

“Oh, Uncle Geoffrey, I beg your pardon!” cried Hen- 
rietta, blushing crimson. 

” Don’t take it off till I have looked at you,” said Uncle 
Geoffrey. ‘ ‘ Why, you would make a capital Portia !’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Yes, yes 1’ ’ cried Queen Bee, ‘ • that is it ; Portia she shall 
be, and I’ll be Nerissa.” 

Oh, no, Queenie, I could never be Portia!” said Hen- 
rietta ; ‘ ‘ I am sure I can’ t. ” a 

But I have set my heart on being the ‘ little scrubby 
lawyer’s clerk,’ ” said Busy Bee; “it is what I am just fit 
for; and let me see— -Fred sliall be Antonio, and that will 
make you plead from your very heart, and you shall have 
Alex for your Bassanio. ’ ’ 


HENRIFA'TA^S WISH, 223 

“But the word. Do you mean to make it fit in with 
Falstaff and Catherine Seyton?” said Henrietta. 

“Let me see,” said Beatrice; “ bond— bondage, jew— 
jeweler, juniper ’ ’ 

“Lawsuit,” said Fred. “Ay, don’t you see, all the 
scenes would come out of the ‘Merchant of Venice.’ 
There is ‘ law ’ when the old Jew is crying out for his 
ducats, and— but halloo!” and Fred stood aghast at the 
sight of his uncle, whose presence they had all forgotten in 
their eagerness. 

“Traitor!” said Beatrice; “but never mind, I believe we 
must have let him into the plot, for nobody else can be Shy - 
lock.” 

“Oh, Bee,” whispered Henrietta, reproachfully, “don’t 
tease him with our nonsense. Think of asking him to 
study Shy lock’s part, when he has all that pile of papers on 
the table.” 

“ Jessica, my girl, 

Look to my house. I am right loath to go; 

There is some ill a-brewing to my rest, 

For I did dream of money-bags to-night.” 

Such was Uncle Geoffrey’s reply ; his face and tone so 
suddenly altered to the snarl of the old Jew, that his young 
companions at first started, and then clapped their hands 
in delighted admiration. 

‘ ‘ Do you really know it all?” asked Henrietta, in a sort of 
respectful awe. 

“ It won’t cost me much trouble to get it up,” said Mr. 
Geoffrey Langford ; “ Shylock’s growls stick in one’s mem- 
ory better than finer speeches. ’ ’ 

“ Then will you really be so very kind?” 

“Provided you will leave the prompter of Monday night 
on the table this morning,” said Uncle Geoffrey, smiling in 
that manner which, to a certain degree, removed any feel- 
ing of 6bligation by making it seem as if it was entii'ely for 
his own diversion. Nor could it be denied that he did 
actually enjoy it. 

The party took up their quartei-s in the study, which 
really was the only place fit for consultations and" rehears 
als, since Fred and Alex could not be taken to the maids’ 
workroom, and none of the down-stairs apartments could be 
made subject to the confusion incidental to their prepara- 
tions. Henrietta had many scruples at first about disturb- 
ing Uncle Geoffrey, but his daughter laughed at them all ; 
and they were soon at an end when she perceived that he 
minded their chattering, spouting, and laughing, no more 
than if they had been so many little sparix)ws twittering 
on the eaves, but pursued the even tenor of his writing, 
uninterruptedly, even whilst she fitted on his head a yel- 


2S4 


HENRIETTA 11 T.S'i/. 


low pointed cap which her ingenious fingers had com- 
pounded of the fining of certain ugly old curtains. 

His presence in this silent state served, too, as a protec- 
tion in Mrs. Langford’s periodical visitations to stir the 
fire ; but for him, she would assuredly have found fault, 
and possibly Beatrice have come to a collision with her, 
which would have put an end to the whole scheme. 

It formed a considerable addition to Henrietta’s list of 
his avocations, and really by making the utmost of every- 
thing he did for other people during that whole week, she 
made the number reach even to seventy -nine by the next 
Thursday morning. The most noted of these employments 
were the looking over a new act of Parliament with, the 
county member, the curing grandmamma’s old gander of a 
mysterious lameness, the managing of an emigration of a 
whole family to New Zealand, the guessing a riddle sup- 
posed “ to have no answer,” and the mending of some ex- 
traordinary spring that was broken in Uncle Roger’s new 
drill. Beatrice, was charmed with the list; Aunt Mary 
said it was delightful to be so precious to every one ; and 
grandpapa, shaking his head at his son, said he was 
ashamed to find that his family contained such a ” Jack of 
all trades;” to which Uncle Geoffrey replied, that it was 
too true that “ all work and no play made Jack a very dull 
boy.” 

The breaking up of the frost, with a succession of sleet, 
snow, and rain, was much in favor of Beatrice and her 
plans, by taking away all temptation from the boys to en- 
gage in out-of-door amusements ; and Antonio and Bassanio 
studied their parts so diligently, that Carey was heard to 
observe that it might as well be the half year. They had, 
besides their own proper parts, to undertake those of the 
Princes of Arragon and Morocco, since Queen Bee, willing 
to have as much of Nerissa as possible, had determined to 

E ut their choice, and that of Bassanio, all into the one scene 
elonging to “suit.” It was one of those occasions on 
which she showed little consideration, for she thus gave 
Portia an immense quantity to learn in only two days, per- 
suading herself all the time that it was no such hard task, 
since the beautiful speech about mercy Henrietta already 
knew by heart, and she made no difficulty about the rest. 
•Indeed, Beatrice thought herself excessively amiable in 
doing all she could to show off her cousin’s beauty and act- 
ing, whilst taking a subordinate part herself; forgetting 
that humility is not shown in choosing a part, but in taking 
willingly that which is assigned us. 

Henrietta was rather appalled at the quantity she had 
to learn, as well as at the prominent part she was to take ; 
but she did not like to spoil the pleasure of the rest with 


UENRIETTA'!^ WISH. 


235 


objections, and applied herself with good earnest to her 
study. She walked about with a little Shakespeare in her 
hand ; she learned while she was dressing, working, wait- 
ing, sat up late, resisting many a summons from her 
mother to come to bed, and, long before daylight, was up 
and learning again. 

The great evening had come, and the audience were thus 
arranged : grandmamma took up her carpet-work, express- 
ing many hopes to Aunt Roger that it would be over now 
and out of the children’s heads, for they turned the house 
upside down, and, for her part, she thought it very like 
play-acting. Aunt Roger, returning the sentiment with 
interest, took out one of the little brown holland frocks, 
which she seemed to be always making. Uncle Roger com- 

E osed himself to sleep in the arm-chair for want of his 
rother to talk to ; grandpapa moved a sofa to the front 
for Aunt Mary, and sat down by her, declaring that they 
would see something very pretty, and hoping it would not 
be too hard a nut for his old Avits to crack ; Jessie, and such 
of the boys as could not be persuaded to be magnificos, 
found themselves a convenient station, and the scene 
opened. 

It was a very short one, but it made every one laugh 
greatly, thanks to Shylock’s excellent acting, and the 
chorus of boj^s, Avho greatly enjoyed chasing him across 
the stage, crying, “ The law, his ducats, and his daughter !” 

Then, after a short interval, appeared Portia, a silver ar- 
row in her hair, almost lovely enough for the real Portia; 
though the alarmed expression in her glowing face was lit- 
tle accordant with the calm dignified self-possession of the 
noble Venetian heiress. Nerissa, a handkerchief folded 
squarely over her head, short petticoats, scarlet lamb’s 
wool worked into her sto'^kings, and a black apron trimmed 
with bright ribbon, made a complete little Italian waiting- 
maid; her quick, pert reply to her lady’s first faltering 
speech, .seemed wonderfully to restore Portia to herself, 
and they got on well and with spirit through the descrip- 
tion of the suitors, and the choice of the two first caskets. 
Portia looked excessively dignified, and Nerissa’s by -play 
was capital. Whether it was owing to Bassanio’s awkward- 
ness or her own shyness, she did not prosper quite so well 
Avhen the leaden casket was chosen ; Bassanio seemed more 
afraid of her than rejoiced, and looked much more at Ne- 
rissa than at her, Avhilst she moved as slowly, and spoke in 
as cold and measured a Avay, as if it had been the Prince 
of Morocco Avho had unfortunately hit upon the right 
casket. 

In the grand concluding .scene she Avas, hoAvever, all that 
could be wished. She really made a very pretty picture, in 


226 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


the dark robes, the glowing carnation of her cheek con 
trasting with the gray wig, beneath which a few bright 
ringlets still peeped out ; one little white hand raised, and 
the other homing the parchment, and her eyes fixed on the 
Jew as if she either imagined herself Portia, or saw her 
brother in Antonio’s case, for they glistened with tears, 
and her voice had a tremulous pleading tone, which fairly 
made her grandfather and mother both cry heartily. 

“ Take, then, thy bond; take thou thy pound of flesh!” 

The duke (little Willy) was in an agony, and was forci- 
bly withheld by Bassanio from crying, “No, he sha’n’t!” 
Nerissa was so absorbed as even to have forgotten herself ; 
Shylock could hardly keep his countenance up to the nec- 
essary expression of malice and obduracy ; even Johnny 
and Dick were hanging with breathless attention on the 
“ but,” when suddenly there was a general start through- 
out the party; the door opened; Atkins, with a voice 
and face full of delight, announced “Master Roger,” and 
there entered a young man, in a pea-jacket and worsted 
comforter. 

Such confusion, such rapture as ensued ! The tumultu- 
ous welcomes and hand-shakings before the sailor had time 
to distinguish one from another, the actors assuming their 
own characters, grandmamma and Mrs. Roger Langford 
asking dozens of questions in a breath, and Mr. Roger Lang- 
ford fast asleep in his great arm -chair, till roused by Dick 
tugging at his arm, and Willy hammering on his knee, he 
slowly rose, saying : 

“ What, Roger, my boy, is it you? I thought it was all 
their acting!” 

“Ah! Miss Jessie,” exclaimed Roger; “that is right; I 
have not seen such a crop of shining curls since I have been 
gone. So you have not lost your pink cheeks with pining 
for me. How are they all at home?” 

“Here, Roger, your Aunt Mary,” said his mother; and 
instantly there was a subduing of the young sailor’s boister- 
ous mirth, as he turned to answer her gentle welcome. 
The laugh arose the next moment at the appearance of the 
still half-disguised actors: Alex without Bassanio’s short 
black cloak and slouched hat and feather, but still retain- 
ing his burnt cork eyebrows and mustache, and wondering 
that Roger did not know him; Uncle Geoffrey still in Shy - 
lock’s yellow cap, and Fred somewhat grim with the Prince 
of Morocco’s complexion. 

How d’ye do, Phil?” said Roger, returning his cousinly 
shake of the hand with interest. “What! are you not 
Philip Carey?” 


227 


HENRTErTA'^ WISH, 

“Oh, Roger, Roger!” cried a small figure, in whom the 
Italian maiden predominated. 

‘ ‘ What, Aunt Geoffrey masquerading too? How d’ye do, 
aunt?” 

“Well done, Roger! That’s right! Goon!” cried his 
father, laughing heartily. 

“Is it not my aunt? No? Is it the little Bee, then? 
Why you are grown as like her! But where is Aunt 
Geoffrey, then? Not here? That is a bore. I thought you 
Avould have all been in port here at Christmas. And is 
not this Philip? Come tell me, some of you, instead of 
standing laughing there. Are you Fred Langford, then?” 

“ Right this time,” said Fred, “ so now you must shake 
hands with me in my own name.” 

“ Very glad to do so, and see you here at last,” said 
Roger, cordially. “And now tell me, what is all this 
about? One would think you were crossing the line?” 

“You shall hear what it is all about, and see too,” said 
Mr. I^ngford. “We must have that wicked old Jew dis- 
appointed, must not we, Willy? But where is my little 
Portia? What is become of her?” 

“ Fled, I suspect,” said her mother, “ gone to turn into 
herself before her introduction.” 

“Oh, Roger, it was so jolly,” Carey was now heard to 
say above the confusion of voices. “Uncle Geoffrey was 
an old Jew, going to cut a pound of flesh out of Fred, and 
Henrietta was making a speech, in a lawyer’s wig, and 
had just found such a dodge!” 

“Ha! like the masks in the carnival at Rio! Ferrars 
and I went ashore there, and ” 

“ Have you been at Sutton Leigh, Roger?”* “ Have you 
dined?” “ Cold turkey— excellent Christmas pie, only too 
much pepper— a cup of tea — no, but we will have the beef 
in ” 

Further conversation was suspended by these proposi- 
tions, with the answers and thanks resulting therefrom, 
but in the midst grandpapa exclaimed, “Ah! here she is! 
Here is the counselor! Here is a new cousin for you, 
Roger; here is the advocate for you when you have a 
tough lawsuit ! Lucky for you. Master Geoffrey, that she 
is not a man, or your nose would soon be put out of joint. 
You little rogue ! How dared you make your mother and 
grandfather cry their hearts out?” 

“I was very glad to see you as bad as myself, sir,’’ said 
Mrs. Frederick Langford. “I was very much ashamed of 
being so f(X)lish, but then, you know, 1 could hardly ever 
read through that scene without crying.” 

“ Ah! you are a prudent mamma, and will not let her be 
conceited. But to see Geoffrey, with his lips quivering, 


228 


henrtetTa\s wish. 


and yet frowning and looking savage with all his might 
and main! Well, you are a capital set of actors, all of you, 
and we must see the end of it. ’ ’ 

This was the great desire of Beatrice, and she was 
annoyed with Henrietta for having thrown aside her bor- 
rowed garments, but the Fates decreed otherwise. The 
Christmas pie came in, grandpapa proceeded to carve it, 
and soon lost the remembrance of the charade in talking 
to his eldest grandson about his travels. A sailor just 
returned from four years on the South American coast, 
who had doubled Cape Horn, shot condors on the Andes, 
caught goats at Juan Fernandez, fished for sharks in the 
Atlantic, and heard parrots chatter in the Brazilian woods, 
could not fail to be very entertaining, even though he 
cared not for the Incas of Peru, and could tell little about 
the beauties of an iceberg; and accordingly every one was 
greatly entertained except the Queen Bee, who sat in a 
corner of the sofa, playing with her watch- chain, wonder- 
ing how long Roger w^ould go on eating pie, looking, at the 
time-piece, and strangling the yawns induced by her 
inability to attract the notice of either of her squires, 
whose eyes and ears w^ere all for the new-comer. She was 
not even missed; if she had been, it would have been some 
consolation ; but on they w^ent, listening and laughing, as 
if the course of the Euphrosyne, her quick sailing, and 
the adventures of her crew, were the only subjects of 
interest in the world. He was only at home for a week, 
but so much the worse; that would be till the end of 
Beatrice’s own visit, and she supposed it would be nothing 
but Euphrosyne the Avhole time. 

There was at last a change : Roger had half a hundred 
questions to ask about his cousins and all the neighbors. 

“ And has Philip Carej^ set up for himself at Allonfield? 
Does he get any practice? I have a great mind to be ill; it 
would be such a joke to be doctored by Master Philip!” 

“Ah! to think of your, taking Mr. Frederick for poor 
Philip,” said Jessie. “I assure you,” nodding to Ired, 
“ I take it as a great compliment, and so will Philip.” 

“ And is Fanny Evans as pretty as ever?” 

“Oh! grown quite fat and coarse,” said Jessie; “but 
you may judge for yourself on ;^Ionday. Dear Mrs. Lang 
ford is so kind as to ^ve us a regular Christmas party, and 
all the Evanses and Dittons are coming. And we are to 
dance in the dining-room, the best place for it in the 
county ; the fioor is so much better laid down than in the 
Allonfield assembly-room.” 

‘ ‘ No such good place for dancing as the deck of a 
frigate,” said Roger. “This time last year we had a ball on 
board the Eur>hroysno at Rio. I took the prettiest girl 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


229 


there in to supper— don’t be jealous, Jessie, she had not 
such cheeks as yours. She was better off there than in the 
next ball where I met her, in the town. She fancied she 
had got rather a thick sandwich at supper; she peeped in, 
and what do you think she found? A great monster of a 
cockroach, twice as big as any you ever saw.” 

“Oh, you horrid wretch!” cried Jessie, “I am sure it 
was your doing. I am sure you will give me a scorpion, or 
some dreadful creature 1 I won’t let you take me in to sup 
per on Monday, I declare.” 

“ Perhaps I won’t have you. I mean to have Cousin 
Henrietta for my partner, if she will have me.” 

“Thank you, Cousin Roger,” faltered Henrietta, blush- 
ing crimson, with the doubt whether she was saying the 
right thing, and fearing Jessie might be vexed. 

Her confusion was increased the next moment, as Roger, 
looking at her more fully than he had done before, went 
on: 

“ Much honored, cousin. Now, all of you wish me joy. 
I am safe to have the prettiest girl in the room for my 
partner. But how slow of them all not to have engaged 
her before. Eh 1 Alex, what have you to say for yourself?’ ’ 

“ I hope for Queen Bee,” said Alex. 

“ And Jessie must dance with me, because I don’t know 
how, ’ ’ said Carey. 

“My dears, this will never do !” interposed grandmamma. 
“ You can’t all dance with each other, or what is to be- 
come of the company? I never heard of such a thing. Let 
me see: Queen Bee must open the ball with little Henry 
Hargrave, and Roger must dance with Miss Benson.” 

“No, no,” cried Roger, “I won’t give up my partner, 
ma’am; I am a privileged person, just come home. Knight 
Sutton has not had too much of Henrietta or me, so you 
must let us be company. Come, Cousin Henrietta, stick 
fast to your engagement; you can’t break the first promise 
you ever made me. Here,” proceeded he, jumping up and 
holding out his hands, “ let us begin this minute; I’ll show 
you how we waltz with the Brazilian ladies.” 

” Thank you. Cousin Roger, I cannot waltz,” said Henri- 
etta. 

“That’s a pity. Come, Jessie, then.” 

If the practice of waltzing was not to be admired, there 
was something which was very nice in the perfect good- 
humor with which Jessie answered her cousin’s summons, 
without the slightest sign of annoyance at his evident pref 
erence of Henrietta’s newer face. 

‘‘If I can’t waltz, I can play for you,” said Henrietta, 
willing not to seem disobliging: and going to the piano, she 
played whilst Roger and Jessie whirled merrily round the 


m 


IVTSH. 


i*oom, every now and then receiving shocks against the 
furniture, and minding them not the least in the world, till 
at last, perfectly out of breath, they dropped laughing upon 
the sofa. 

The observations upon the wild spirits of sailors ashore 
then sunk into silence ; Mrs. Eoger Langford reproved her 
son for making such a racket, as was enough to kill his 
Aunt Mary ; with a face of real concern he apologized from 
the bottom of his heart, and Aunt Mary in return assured 
him that she enjoyed the sight of his merriment. 

Grandmamma announced in her most decided tone that 
she would have no waltzes and no polkas at her party. 
Roger assured her that there was no possibility of giving a 
dance without them, and Jessie seconded him as much as 
she ventured ; but Mrs. Langford was unpersuadable, de- 
claring that she would have no such things in her house. 
Young people in her days Avere contented to dance country 
dances ; if they Avanted anything newer, they might have 
quadrilles, but as to these iicav romps, she would not hear 
of them. 

And here, for once in her life, Beatrice was perfectly 
agreed with her grandmamma, and she came to life again, 
and sat forward to join in the universal condemnation of 
waltzes and polkas that Avas going on round the table. 

With this drop of consolation to her, the party broke up, 
and Jessie, as she walked home to Sutton Leigh, found 
great solace in determining Avithin herself that at any rate 
Avaltzing AA'as not half so bad as dressing up and play-act- 
ing, which she Avas sure her mamma Avould never approve. 

Beatrice came to her aunt’s room, Avhen they went up- 
stairs, and petitioned for a little talk, and Mrs. Frederick 
Langford, AAuth kind pity for her present motherless con- 
dition, accepted her visit, and even alloAved her to outstay 
Bennet, during whose operations the discussion of the cha- 
rade, and the history of the preparations and contrivances 
gave subject to a very animated conversation. 

Then came matters of more interest. What Beatrice 
seemed above all to wish for, Avas to relieve herself by the 
expression of her intense dislike to the ball, and all the 
company, very nearly without exception, and there were 
few elders to whom a young damsel could talk so much 
Avithout restraint as to Aunt Mary. 

The Avaltzing, too, how glad she was that grandmamma 
had forbidden it, and here Henrietta chimed in. She had 
never seen Avaltzing before, had only heard of it as people 
in their quiet homes hear and think of the doings of the 
fashionable Avorld, and in her simplicity was perfectly 
shocked and amazed at Jessie, a sort of relation, practicing 
it and pleading for it. 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


231 


“ My dear, ’ ’ said Beatrice, laughing, “ I do not know what 
you would do if you were me, when there is Matilda St. 
polkaing away half the days of her life.” 

“Yes, but Lady Matilda is a regular fashionable young 
lady.” 

“Ay, and so is Jessie at heart. It is the elegance, and 
the air, and the society that are wanting, not the will. It 
is the circumstances that make the difference, not the 
temper.” 

“ Quite true, Busy Bee,” said her aunt, “temper may be 
the same in 'very different circumstances.” 

“ But it is very curious, mamma,” said Henrietta, “ how 
people can be particular in one point, ana not in another. 
Now, Bee, I beg your pardon, only I know you don’t mind 
it, Jessie did not approve of your skating.” 

“ Yes, ” said Beatrice, “every one has scruples of his own, 
and laitghs at those of oth^ people.” 

“ Which I think ought to teach Busy Bees to be rather 
less stinging, ’ ’ said Aunt Mary. 

“ But then, mamma,” said Henrietta, “we must hold to 
the right scruples, and what are they? I do not suppose 
that in reality Jessie is less — less desirous of avoiding all 
that verges toward a want of propriety than we are, yet 
she waltzes. Now we were brought up to dislike such 
things.” 

“Oh, it is just according to what you are brought up to,” 
said Beatrice. “A Turkish lady despises us for showing 
our faces; it is iust as you think it.” 

“No, that will not do,” said Henrietta. “Something 
must be actually wrong. Mamma, do say what you 
think.” 

“ I think, my dear, that woman has been mercifully en- 
dowed with an instinct which discerns unconsciously what 
is becoming or not, and whatever at the first moment jars 
on that sense is unbecoming in her own individual case. 
The fineness of the perception may be destroyed by educa- 
tion, or willful dulling, and often on one point it may thus 
be silenjb, though alive and active on others.” 

“ Yes,” said Henrietta, as if satisfied. 

“And above all,” said her mother, “it, like other gifts, 
grows dangerous; it may become affectation.” 

“ Pruding,” said Beatrice, “showing openly that you 
like it to be observed how prudent and proper you are.” 

“Whereas true delicacy would shrink from showing 
that it is conscious otf anj’'thing wrong,” said Henrietta. 
“Wrong I do not exactly mean, but something on the bor- 

dersof it.” ^ w .u- 

“Yes,” said Aunt Mary, “and above all, do not let this 
delicacy show itself in the carping at other people, which 


232 


HENRIETTA'S ] VISH. 


only exalts our own opinion of ourselves, and very soon 
turns into ‘ judging our neighbor.’ ” 

“ But there is false delicacy, aunt.” 

“Yes, but it would be false kindness to enter on a fresh 
discussion to-night, when you ought to be fast asleep.” 


: CHAPTER XI. 

The Queen Bee, usually undisputed sovereign of Knight 
Sutton, found in her Cousin Roger a formidable rival. As 
son and heir, elder brother, and newly arrived after five 
years’ absence, he had considerable claims to attention, 
and his high spirits, sailor manners, sea-stories, and bold 
open temper, were in themselves such charms that it was 
no wonder that Frederick and Alexander were seduced 
from their allegiance, and even grandpapa was less than 
usual the property of his granddaughter. 

This, however, she might have endured, had the sailor 
himself been amenable to her power, for his glories would 
then have become hers, and have afforded her further op- 
portunities of coquetting with Fred. But between Roger 
and her there was little in common ; he was not, and never 
had been, accessible to her influence ; he regarded her, in- 
deed, with all the open-hearted affection of cousinly inter- 
course, but for the rest, thought her much too clever for 
him, and far less attractive than either Henrietta or Jes- 
sie. 

If she would, Henrietta might have secured his devotion, 
for he was struck with her beauty, and considered it a 
matter of credit to himself to engross the prettiest person 
present. Had Beatrice been in her place, it may be 
doubted how far love of power, and the pleasure of teasing, 
might have carried her out of her natural character into 
the style that suited him ; but Henrietta was too simple, 
and her mind too full of her own affairs even to perceive 
that he distinguished her. She liked him, but she showed 
none of the little airs which would have seemed to appro- 
priate him. She was ready to be talked to, but only as she 
gave the attention due to any one, nay, showing, because 
she felt, less eagerness than if it had been grandpapa. 
Queen Bee, or Fred, a talk with the last of whom was a 
pleasure now longed for, but never enjoyed. To his stories 
of adventures, or accounts of manners, she lent a willing 
and a delighted ear; but all commonplace jokes tending to 
Hirtation fell flat ; she either did not catch them, or ^d not 
catch at them. She might blush and look confused, but it 
was uncomfortable, and not gratified embarrassment, and 
if sjie found an answer, it was one either to change the 
subject, or honestly manifest that she was not pleased. 


m:yR ietta ‘s wish. 


?3a 


She did not mortify Roger, who liked her all the time; 
and if he thought at all. only considered her as shy or 
grave, and still continued to admire her, and seek her out, 
whenever his former favorite, Jessie, was not in the 
way to rattle with in his usual style. Jessie was full of em 
joyment, Henrietta was glad to be left to her own devices, 
her mamma was still more rejoiced to see her act so 
properly without self-consciousness or the necessity of in- 
terference, and the Queen Bee ought to have been duly 
grateful to the one faithful vassal who was proof against 
all allurements from her side and service. 

She ought, but the melancholy fact is that the devotion 
of womankind is usually taken as a matter of course. 
Beatrice would have despised and been very angry with 
Henrietta had she deserted to Roger, but she did not feel 
in the least grateful for her adherence, and would have 
been much more proud of retaining either of the boys. 
There was one point on which their attention could still be 
commanded, namely, the charades; for though the world 
may be of opinion that they had had quite a sufficiency of 
that amusement, they were but the more stimulated by 
their success on Thursday, and the sudden termination in 
the very height of their triumph. 

They would, perhaps, have favored the public with a 
repetition of Shylock’s trial the next evening, but that to 
the ^reat consternation, and, perhaps, indignation of 
Beatrice, when she came down to breakfast in the morn- 
ing, she found their tiring room, the study, completely 
cleared of all their various goods and chattels, Portia’s 
wig in its box, the three caskets gone back to the dressing- 
room, the duke’s throne safe in its place in the hall, and 
even Shylock’s yellow cap picked to pieces, and rolled up 
in the general hoard of things which were to come of us 3 
in seven years’ time. Judith, who was putting the finish- 
ing touches to the re-arrangement, by shaking up the 
cushions of the great chair, and restoring the ink-stand to 
its place in the middle of the table, gave in answer to her 
exclamations the information that “ Missus had been up 
since seven o’clock helping to put away the things herself, 
for she said she could not bear to have Mr. Geoffrey’s room 
not fit for anybody to sit in.’' This might certainly be 
considered as a tolerably broad hint that they had better 
discontinue their representations, but they ^vere arrived at 
that state of eagerness which may be best illustrated by 
the proverb referring to a blind horse. Every oiiO, inclined 
to that same impetuosity, and want of soberness, can re- 
member the dismay with which hosts of such disi egarded 
checks will recur to the mind when too late, and the poor 
satisfaction of the self justification which truly answers 


234 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


that their object was not even comprehended. Henrietta, 
accustomed but little to heed such indications of dissent 
from her will, did not once think of her grandmamma’s 
dislike, and Beatrice with her eyes fully open to it, will- 
fully despised it as a fidgety fancy. 

Henrietta had devised a series of scenes for the word as- 
sassin, and greatly delighted the imagination of her part- 
ners by a proposal to make a pair of asses’ ears of cotton 
velvet for the adornment of Bottom the weaver. Fred fell 
back in his chair in fits of laughing at the device, and 
Queen Bee capered and danced about the room, declaring 
her worthy to be her own “ primest of viziers.” 

“And,” said Beatrice, ‘‘what an exquisite interlude it 
will make to relieve the various plagues of Monday even- 
ing.” 

“ Why, you don’t mean to act then!” exclaimed Henri- 
etta. 

‘‘ Why not? You don’t know what a relief it will be. 
It will be an excuse for getting away from all the stupid- 
ity.” 

‘‘To be sure it will,” cried Fred. “A bright thought, 
Mrs. Bee. We shall have it all to ourselves m the study 
in comfort.” 

‘‘ But would grandmamma ever let us do it?” said Hen- 
rietta. 

” I will manage,” said Beatrice. “I will make grand- 
papa agree to it, and then she will not mind. Think how 
he enjoyed it.” 

‘‘Before so many people!” said Henrietta. ‘‘O, 
Queenie, it will never do ! It would be a regular exhibi- 
tion.” 

‘‘ My dear, what nonsense !” said Beatrice. “ Why, it is 
all among friends and neighbors.” 

‘‘ Friends and neighbors to you,” said Henrietta. 

‘‘ And yours too. Fred, she is deserting ! I thought you 
meant to adopt or inherit all Knight Sutton and its neigh- 
borhood could off er. ” 

‘‘A choice inheritance that neighborhood, by your ac- 
count,” said Fred. ‘‘But come, Henrietta, you must 
not spoil the whole affair by such nonsense and affecta- 
tion!” 

‘ ‘ Affectation ! O Fred ! ’ ’ 

“ Yes, to be sure it is,” said Fred; ‘‘ to set up such scru- 
ples as these. Why, you said yourself that you forget all 
about the spectators when once you get into the spirit of 
the thing.” 

“ And what is affectation,” said Beatrice, seeing her ad- 
vantage, ‘‘ but thinking what other people will think !” 

There are few persuasions to' which a girl who claims to 


nENRIETTA^(:i WISH. 


235 


possess some degree of sense is more accessible, than the 
imputation of affectation, especially when brought for- 
ward by a brother, and enforced by a clever and deter- 
mined friend. Such a feeling is no doubt often very 
useful in preventing folly, but it may sometimes be per- 
verted to the smothering of wholesome scruples. Henri- 
etta only pressed one point more, she begged not to be 
Titania. 

‘‘ O, you must, you silly child,” said Beatrice. “ I have 
such designs for dressing you ! Besides, I mean to be Mus- 
tardseed, and make grandpapa laugh by my by-play at the 
giant Ox-beef.” 

‘‘ But consider. Bee,” said Henrietta, ” how much too tall 
I am for a fairy. It would be too absurd to make Titania 
as large as Bottom himself — spoil the whole picture. You 
might surely get some little girls to be the other fairies, 
and take Titania yourself.” 

‘ ‘ Certainly it might conciliate the people to have their 
own children made part of the show,” said Beatrice. 
‘‘Little Anna Carey has sense enough, I think; ay, and 
the two Nevilles, if they will not be shy. We will keep 
you to come out in grand force in the last scene— Queen 
Eleanor sucking the poison. Aunt Mary has a certain 
black lace scarf that will make an excellent Spanish man- 
tilla. Or else, suppose you are Berengaria, coming to 
see King Richard, when he was ‘ old-nian-of-the-mount- 
ained.’ ” 

‘‘No, no,” cried Fred, ‘‘stick to the Queen Eleanor 
scene. We will have no more blacking of faces. Yester- 
day I was too late down-stairs, because I could not get the 
abominable stuff out of my hair.” 

“ And it would be a cruel stroke to be taken for Philip 
Carey again, in the gentleman’s own presence, too,” said 
Beatrice. ‘‘Monsieur is apparemment the apothecaire de 
farnille. Do you remember, Henrietta, the French gov- 
erness in Miss Edgworth’s book?” 

“Jessie smiled and nodded' as if she was perfectly en- 
chanted with the mistake,” said Henrietta. 

“ And I do not wonder at it,” said Beatrice, “the mis- 
take, I mean. Fred’s white hands there have just the look 
of a doctor’s; of course Roger thought the only use for 
them could be to feel pulses, and Philip, for want of some 
thing better to do, is always trying for a genteel look.” 

“ You insulting creature !” said Fred. ‘ ‘ Just as if I tried 
to look genteel.” 

“ You do, then, whether you try or not. You can’t help 
it, you know, and I am very sorry for you; but you do 
stand and walk, and hold out your hand just as Philip is 


HENIUETTA'8 WISH, 


^ilways trying to do, and it is no wonder Roger thought he 
nad succeeded in attaining his object.” 

“ But what a goose the man must be to make such ab- 
fiurdity his object.” said Henrietta. 

‘‘He could not be a Carey and be otherwise,” said Busy 
Bee. “ And besides, what would you have him do? As to 
getting any practice, unless his kith and kin choose to vic- 
timize themselves philanthropically according to Roger’s 
proposal, I do not see what chance he has, where every 
one knows the extent of a Carey’s intellects; and what is 
left for the poor man to do but to study the cut of his 
boots?” 

“ If you say much more about it, Queenie,” said Henri- 
etta, ‘ ‘ you will make Fred dance in Bottom’s hob-nailed 
shoes.” 

“ Ah! it is a melancholy business.” said Beatrice; “but 
it cannot be helped. Fred cannot turn into a clodhopper. 
But what earthquake is this?” exclaimed she, as the front 
door was dashed open with such violence as to shake the 
house, and the next moment Alexander rushed in, heated 
and almost breathless. “ Rats ! rats !” was his cry ; ‘ ‘ Fred, 
that’s right. But where is Uncle Geoffrey?” 

“Gone to Allonfield.” 

“ More’s the pity. There are a whole host of rats in the 
great barn at home. Pincher caught me one just now, and 
they are going to turn the place regularly out, only I got 
them to wait while I came up here for j^ou and Uncle Geof- 
frey. Come, make haste, fly— like smoke — while I go and 
tell grandpapa.” 

Off flew Fred to make his preparations, and off to the 
drawing-room hurried Alex to call grandpapa. He was 
greeted by a reproof from Mrs. Liangford for shaking the 
house enough to bring it down, and grandpapa laughed, 
thanked him, and said he hoped to be at Sutton Leigh in 
time for the rat-hunt, as he was engaged to drive grand- 
mamma and Aunt Mary thither and to the Pleasance that 
afternoon. 

Two seconds more, and Fred and Alex were speeding 
away together, and the girls went up to put on their bon 
nets to walk and meet their elders at Sutton Leigh. For 
once Beatrice let Henrietta be as slow as she pleased, 
for she was willing to let as much of the visit as possible 
pass before they arrived there. They walked along, mer 
rily concocting their arrangements for Monday evening, 
until at length they came to the gates of Sutton Leigh, and 
already heard the shouts of triumph, the barking of dogs, 
and the cackle of terrified poultry, which proclaimed that 
the war was at its height. 

“O! the glories of a rat hunt!” cried Beatrice. “ Come, 


HFNR 1 ETTA 'S WISH. 


Henrietta, here is a safe place whence to contemplate it, 
and really it is a sight not to be lost.” 

Henrietta thought not indeed when she looked over a 
gate leading into the farmyard on the side opposite to the 
great old barn, raised on a multitude of stone posts, a short 
ladder reaching to the wide doors which were folded back 
60 as to displaj^ the heaps of straw thrown violently back 
and forward ; the dogs now standing in attitudes of ecstatic 
expectation, tail straight out, head bent forward, now 
springing in rapture on the prey; the boys rushing about 
with their huge sticks, and coming down now and then 
with thundering blows, the laborers with their white shirt 
sleeves and pitch-forks pulling down the straw, Uncle 
Roger with a portentous-looking club in the thick of the 
fight. On the ladder, cheering tliem on, stood grandpapa, 
holding little Tom in his arms, and at th(j bottom, armed 
with small sticks, were Charlie and Arthur, consoling 
themselves for being turned out of the melee, by making 
quite as much noise as all those who were doing real execu- 
tion, thumping unmercifully at every unfortunate dead 
mouse or rat that was thrown out, and charging fiercely 
at the pigs, ducks,, and geese that now and then came up 
to inspect proceedings, and perhaps, for such accidents 
Avill occur in the best regulated families, to devour a share 
of the prey. 

Beatrice’s first exclamation was: ”0! if papa was but 
here!” 

” Nothing can go on without him, I suppose,” said Hen 
rietta. ” And yet, is this one of his great enjoyments?” 

“My dear, don’t you know it is a part of the privilege 
of a free-born Englishman to delight in hunting ‘ rats and 
mice and such small deer, ’ as much or more than the grand 
chassef I have not the smallest doubt that all the old 
cavaliers were fine old farm-loving fellows, who liked a 
rat-hunt, and enjoyed turning out a barn with all their 
hearts.” 

“There goes Fred!” cried Henrietta. 

‘ ‘ Ah ! capital. He takes to it by nature, you see. There 
— there! 0 what a scene it is! Look how beautifully the 
sun comes in, making that solid sort of light on the mist 
of dust at the top. ’ ’ 

“ And how beautifulljHt falls on grandpapa’s head! I 
think that grandpapa with little Tom is one of the best 
parts of the picture. Bee.” 

“To be sure he is, that noble old head of his, and that 
beautiful gentle face; and to see him pointing, and sooth 
ing the child wlien he gets frightened at the hubbub, and 
then enjoying the victories over the poor rats as keenly 
as anybody !” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 




“Certainly,” said Henrietta, “there is something very 
odd in man's nature; they can like to do such cruel-sound 
ing things without being cruel! Grandpapa, or Fred, or 
Uncle Roger, or Alex now, they are as kind and gentle as 
possible; yet the delight they can take in catching and 
killing ” 

“ That is what town-people never can understand,” said 
Beatrice, “ that hunting spirit of mankind. I hate above 
all things to hear it cried down, and the nonsense that is 
talked about it. I only wish that those people could have 
seen what I did last summer— grandpapa calling Carej", 
and holding the ladder for him while he put the young 
birds into their nest that had fallen out. And O the uproar 
that? there was one day when Dick did somethijig cruel to 
a poor rabbit ; it was two or three years ago, and Alex and 
Carey set upon him and thrashed him so that they were 
really punished for it, bad as it was of Dick ; it was one of 
those bursts of generous indignation.” 

“It is a very curious thing,” said Henriotta, “the 
soldier spirit it must be, I suppose ” 

What are you philosophizing about, young ladies?” 
asked Mr. Langford, coming up as Henrietta said those 
last words. 

“Only about the spirit of the chase, grandpapa,” said 
Beatrice, “ what the pleasure can be of the field of slaughtei' 
there. ’ ’ 

“ Something mysterious, you maybe sure, young ladies, ” 
said grandpapa. “I have hunted rats once or twice a year 
now these seventy years or more, and I can’t say I am tired 
yet. And there is "Master Fred going at it, for the first 
time in his life, as fiercely as any of us old veterans, and 
he has a very good eye for a hit, I can tell you, if it is any 
satisfaction to you. Ha! hoigh Vixen! lioigh Carey! that’s 
it— there he goes!” 

“ Now, grandpapa,” said Beatrice, catching hold of his 
hand, “ I want just to speak to you. Don’t you think we 
might have a little charade-acting on Monday to enliven 
the evening a little?'’ 

“ Eh? what? More charades? Well, they are very pretty 
sport, only I think they would astonish the natives here a 
little. Are we to have" the end of Shylock?” 

“No,” said Beatrice, “we never condescend to repeat 
ourselves. We have a new word and a beauty, and don't 
you think it will do very well?” 

“ I am afraid grandmamma will think you are going to 
take to private theatricals.” 

“Well, it won’t be nearly such regular acting as the 
last,” said Beatrice, “I do not think it would do to take 
another half- play for so many spectatois, but a scene or 


HEXRIETTA'S WISH. 239 

two mostly in dumb show would make a very nice diver 
sion. Only say that you consent, grandpapa.” 

“Well, I don’t see any harm in it,” said grandpapa, 

‘ ‘ so long as grandmamma does not mind it. I suppose your 
mamma does not, Henrietta?” 

“ Oh, no,” said Henrietta, with a cei'ta in mental reserva- 
tion that she would make her not mind it, or at any rate 
not gainsay it. Fred’s calling her affected was enough to 
make her consent, and bring her mamma fb consent to any- 
thing; for so little is it really the nature of woman to ex- 
ercise power, that if she domineers, it is sure to be com- 
pensated by some subjection in some other manner ; and if 
Henrietta ruled her mother, she was completely under the 
dominion of Fred and Beatrice. Themistocles’ wife might 
rule Athens, but she was governed by her son. 

After this conversation they went in, and found Aunt 
Koger very busy recommending servants to Aunt Mary, 
and grandmamma enforcing all she said. The visit soon 
came to an end, and they went on to the Pleasance, where 
the inspection did not prove quite as agreeable as on the 
first occasion, for grandmamma and Beatrice had very 
different views respecting the appropriation of the rooms, 
and poor Mrs. Frederick Langford was harassed and 
wearied by her vain attempts to accede to the wishes of 
both, and vex neither. Grandmamma was determined, 
too, to look over every corner, and discuss every room, 
and Henrietta, in despair at the fatigue her mother was 
obliged to go through, kept on seeking in vain for a seat 
for her, and having at last discovered a broken-backed 
kitchen chair in some of the regions below, kept diligently 
carrying it after her in all her peregrinations. She was 
constantly wishing that Uncle Geoffrey would come, but in 
vain; and between the long talking at Sutton Leigh, the 
Avandering about the house, and the many discussions, her 
mamma was completely tired out, and obliged, when they 
came home, to confess that she had a headache. Henrietta 
fairly wished her safe at Rocksand. 

While Henrietta was attending her mother to her own 
room, and persuading her to lay up for the evening, 
Beatrice, whose head was full of but one matter, pursued 
Mrs. Langford into the study and propounded her grand 
object. As she fully expected, she met with a flat refusal, 
and sitting down in her arm chair, Mrs. Langford very 
earnestly began with, “ Now, listen to me, my dear child,” 
and proceeded with a long story of certain private theat- 
ricals some forty years ago, Avhich, to her certain knowl- 
edge, ended in a young lady eloping with a music-master. 
Beatrice set to work to argue: in the first place, it was not 
probable that either she or Henrietta would run away with 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 




their cousins; secondly, that the former elopement was 
not chargeable on poor Shakespeare; thirdly, that these 
were not theatricals at all. 

“ And pray what are they, then— when you dress your 
selves up, and speak the speeches as boldly as Mrs. Sid- 
dons, or any of them-?” 

“ You pay us a great compliment,” said Beatrice, who 
could sometimes be pert when alone with grandmamma; 
and she then went on with her explanation of how very 
far this was from anything that could be called theatrical ; 
it was the guessing the word, not their acting, that was 
the important point. The distinction was too fine for 
grandmamma, it was play acting, and that was enough 
for her, and she would not have it done. ” But grandpapa 
liked it, and had given full consent.” This was a power 
ful piece of ordnance which Beatrice had kept in reserve, 
but at the first moment the shot did not tell. 

‘‘Ladies were the best judges in such a case as this,” 
said Mrs. Langford, ‘ ' and let who would consent, she would 
never have her granddaughters standing up, speaking 
speeches out of Shakespeare, before a whole room full of 
company.” 

“ Well, then, grandmamma. I'll tell you what — to oblige 
you, we will not have one single scene out of Shakespeiare 
—not one. Won’t that do?” . ' 

‘ ‘ You will go to some other play -book, and that is worse, ” 
said Mrs. Langford. 

‘‘ No, no, we will not — we will do every bit out of our 
own heads, and it shall be almost all Fred and Alex. Hen- 
rietta and I will scarcely come in at all. And it will so 
shorten the evening, and amuse every one so nicely ! and 
grandpapa has said we may.” 

Mrs. Langford gave a sort of sigh. “Ah, well! you al 
ways will have your own way, and I suppose you must ; 
but I never thought to see such things m my house. In 
my day, young people thought no more of a scheme when 
their elders had once said. No.” 

“ Yes, only you must not say so, grandmamma. I am 
sure we Avould give it up if you did; but pray do not— we 
will manage very vvell.” 

“And put the whole house in a mess, as you did last 
time; turn everything upside down. I tell you, Beatrice, 
I can't have it done. I shall want the study to put out the 
supper in.’’ 

“We can dress in our own rooms, then,” said Beatrice; 

‘ ' never mind that. ’ ’ 

“Well, then, if you will make merry-andrews of your- 
selves, and your fathers and mothers like to let you, I 
can't help it - that’s all I have to say,” said Mrs. Lang- 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


241 


ford, walking out of the room; while Fred entered from 
the other side a moment after. “Victory, victory, my 
dear Fred!” cried Beatrice, darting to meet him in an ec- 
stasy, “I have prevailed; you 'find me in the hour of vic- 
tory. The Assassin forever ! anndunced for Monday night, 
before a select audience!” 

“Well, you are an irresistible Queen Bee,” said Fred; 
“ why Alex has just been telling me ever so much that his 
mother told him about grandmamma’s dislike to it. I 
thought the whole concern a gone ’coon, as they say in 
America.” 

“I got grandpapa first,” said Beatrice, “and then I 
persuaded her ; she told me it would lead to all sorts of 
mischief, and gave me a long lecture which had nothing 
to do with it. But I found at last that the chief points 
which alarmed her were poor Shakespeare and the con 
fusion in the study , so by giving up those two I gained 
everything.” 

“You don’t mean that you gave up bully Bottom?” 

“Yes, I do; but you need not resign your asses’ ears. 
You shall wear them in the character of King Midas.” 

“I think,” said the vmgrateful Fred, “that you might 
as well have given it all up together as Bottom.” 

“ No, no; just think what capabilities there are in Midas. 
We will decidedly make him King of California, and ITT 
be the priestess of Apollo; there is an old three-legged 
epergne-etand that will make a most excellent tripod. 
And only think of the whispering into the reeds. ‘ King 
Midas has the ears of an ass. ’ T would have made more 
of a fight for Bottom, if that had not come into my 
head.” 

“But you will have nothing to do.” 

“ That helped to conciliate. I promised we girls should 
appear very little, and for the sake of effect, I had rather 
Henrietta broke on the world in all her beauty at the end. 
I do look forward to seeing her as Queen Eleanor ; she will 
look so regal.” 

Fred smiled, for he delighted in his sister’s praises. 
“ You are a wondrous damsel, busy one,” said he, “to be 
pDiitent to play second fiddle.” 

“Second fiddle! As if I were not the great moving 
spring! Trust me, you would never write yourself down 
an ass but for the Queen Bee. How shall we ever get your 
ears from Allonfield? Saturday night, and only till Mon- 
day evening to do everything in !” 

“Oh, you will do it,” said Fred. “I wonder what you 
and Henrietta cannot do between you ! Oh, there is Uncle 
Geoffrey come in,” he exclaimed, as he heard the front 
door open. 


243 


HENRIETTA'S ^ 1 ISH. 


“ And I must go and dress,” said Beatrice, seized with a 
sudden haste, which did not speak well for the state of her 
conscience. 

Uncle Geoffrey was in jthe hall, taking oft his mud- 
bespattered gaiters. “So you are entered with the ver- 
min, Fred,” called he, as the two came out of the drawing- 
room. 

“ O how we wished for you. Uncle Geoffrey ! but how did 
you hear it?” 

“ I met Alex iust now. Capital sport you must have 
had. Are you only ;just come in?” 

‘ ‘ No, we were having a consultation about the charades, ” 
said Fred; “ the higher powers consent to our having them 
on Monday.” 

“ Grandmamma approving?” asked Uncle Geoffrey. 

“Oh, yes,” said Fred, in all honesty, “she only objected 
to our taking a regular scene in a play, and ‘ coming it as 
strong ’ as we did the other night; so it is to be all extem- 
porary, and it will do famously.” 

Beatrice, who had been waiting in the dark at the top of 
the stairs, listening, was infinitely i ejoiced that the project 
had been explained so plausibly, and j^et in such perfect 
good faith, and she flew off to dress in high spirits. Had 
she mentioned it to her father, he would have doubted, 
taken it as her scheme, and perhaps put a stop to it ; but 
hearing of it from Frederick, whose pleasures were so often 
thwarted, was likely to make him far more unwilling to 
object. For its own sake, she knew he had no objection to 
the sport; it was only for that of his mother, and since he 
had heard of her as consenting, all was right. No, could 
Beatrice actually say so to her own secret soul? 

She could not; but she could smother that still, small 
voice that checked her, in a multitude of plans, and proj- 
ects, and criticisms, and airy castles, and, above all, the 
pleasure of triumph and dominion, and the resolution w£is 
not to yield, and the delight of leading. 


CHAPTER XH. 

“ Our hearts and all our members, being mortified from 
all worldly and carnal lusts;” so speaks the collect witllT 
which we begin the new year— such the prayer to which 
the lips of the young Langfords said, “Amen!” but what 
was its application to them? What did they do with the 
wicked world in their own guarded homes? There was 
Uncle Geoffrey : he was in the world. It might be for him 
to pray for that spirit which enabled him to pass unscathed 
through the perils of his profession, neither tempted to 
grasp at the honors nor the wealth Avhich lay in his way, 


miyiuETTA'^ wmn, ^43 

nnhardened and nnsoured by the contact of the sin and 
selfishness on every side. This might indeed be the world. 
There was Jessie Carey, with her love of dress, and ad- 
miration, and pleasure; she should surely pray that she 
might live less to tlie vanities of the Avorld; there were 
others, whose worn countenances spoke of hearts devoted 
to the cares of the world ; but to those fair, fresh, happy 
young things, early taught how to prize vain pomp and 
glorj^ tlieir minds as yet free from anxiety, looking from a 
safe distance on the busy field of trial and temptation ; 
were not they truly kept from that world which they had 
renounced? 

Alas ! that they did not lay to heart that the world is 
everywhere ; that if education had placed them above being 
tempted by the poorer, cheaper, and more ordinary attrac - 
tions, yet allurements there were for them also. A pleasure 
pursued with headlong vehemence because it was of their 
own devising, love of rule, the spirit of rivalry, the want 
of submission ; these were of the world. Other temptations 
had not yet reached them, but if they ga^ e way to those 
which assailed them in their early youth, how could they 
expect to have strength to bear up against the darker and 
stronger ones which would meet their riper years? 

Even before daylight had fully found its way into Knight 
Sutton Hall, there was many a note of preparation, and 
none clearer or louder than those of the charade actors. 
Beatrice was up long before light, in the midst of her 
preparations, and it was not long after, as, lamp in hand , 
she whisked through the passages, Frederick’s voice was 
heard demanding whether the Busy Bee had turned into a 
firefly, and if the paste was made wherewith Midas was to 
have his crown stuck Avith gold paper. Zealous indeed 
were the Avorkers, and heartily did old Judith Avish them 
anywhere else, as she drove them, their lamps, their paste, 
and neAvspaper, from one corner of the study to the other, 
and, at last, fairly out into the hall, threatening them Avith 
Avhat missus Avoiild say to them. At last, grandmamma 
came doAvn Avith a party of neat little notes in her hand, to 
be immediately sent off by Martin and the cart to Allon- 
field, and Martin came to the door leading to the kitchen 
regions to recei\"e his directions. 

“ Oh, hoAv lucky!” cried Queen Bee, springing up. “The 
cotton velvet for the ears. ITl Avrite a note in a second.” 
Then she paused. “ But I can’t do it Avithout Henrietta; I 
don’t know how much she wants. Half a yard must do, I 
suppose; but then how to describe it? Half a yard of don- 
key-colored velvet! It will never do; I must see Henrietta 
first!” 

“ Have you not heard her bell?” said Fred. 


^44 HENRIETTA'S WISH. 

“ Nt»: shall I go and knock at the door? She must be up 
by this time.” 

“You had better ask Bennet,” said Fred; “she some 
times gets up quietly, and dresses herself without Bennet, 
if mamma is asleep, because it gives her a palpitation to be 
disturbed in the morning.” 

Bennet was shouted for, and proved not to have been into 
her mistress’ room. The charade mania was not strong 
enough to make them venture upon disturbing Mrs. Fred 
erick Langford, and to their great vexation, Martin de 
parted bearing no commission for the asinine decorations. 

About half an hour after, Henrietta made her appear- 
ance, as sorry as any one that the opportunity had been 
lost, more especially as mamma had been broad awake all 
the time, and the only reason she had not rung the bell 
was, that she was not ready for Bennet. 

As usual, she was called an incorrigible dawdle, and 
made a humble confession of the same, offering to do all in 
her power to make up for the morning’s laziness. But 
what would Midas be without his ears? 

The best plan that Queen Bee could devise, was, that, 
whilst Henrietta was engaged with the other preparations, 
she should walk to Sutton Leigh with Frederick, to dis- 
patch Alexander to Allonfield. No sooner said than done, 
and off they set, but neither was this plan fated to meet 
with success; for just as they came in sight of Sutton 
Leigh, they were hailed by the loud, hearty voice of Eoger 
and beheld him at the head of four brothers, marching off 
to pay his respects to his aunt Carey, some three miles off. 
Alex came to hold council at Queen Bee’s summons, but he 
could do nothing for her, for he had that morning been 
taken to task for not having made a visit to Mrs. Care> , 
since he came home, and especially ordered off to call upon 
her before meeting her at the party that evening. 

‘ ‘ How abominably provoking !’ ’ cried Beatrice ; ‘ ‘ just as 
if it signified. If I had but a fairy!” 

“Carey!” called Alex, “here! Bee wants to send over 
to Allonfield; won’t you take Dumple, and go?” 

“Not I,” responded Carey; “ I want to walk with Roger. 
But there’s Dumple, let her go herself.” 

‘ ‘ What, ride him?” asked Beatrice ; “ thank you, Carey. ” 

“Fred might drive you,” said Carey; “O no, poor fel- 
low, I suppose he does not know how.” 

Fred colored with anger. “Ido,” said he ; “I have often 
driven our own horses.” 

“Ay,” said Beatrice, “with the coachman sitting by 
you, and Aunt Mary little guessing what you were doing.” 

“ I assure you, queen,” said Fred, very earnestly. I do 
really know how to drive, and if we may have the "gig, and 


HENRTETTA^f^ WISH. 


24 ?) 


you will trust yourself with me, I will bring you home 
quite safe.” 

“I know you can have the gig,” said Carey, for papa 
offered it to Roger and Alex this morning; only we chose 
all to walk together. To think of doubting whether to 
drive old Dumple!” 

‘‘I don’t question,” said Fred; ‘‘I only want to know 
if Busy Bee will go. I won’t break your neck, I promise 
you.” 

Beatrice was slightly mistrustful, and had some doubts 
about Aunt Mary, but poor Alex did much to decide her, 
though intending quite the reverse. 

” I don’t advise you, Bee,” said he. 

” Oh, as to that,” said she, pleased to see that he disliked 
the plan, ” I have great faith in Dumple’ s experience, and I 
can sit tight in a chay, as the boy said to grandpapa when he 
asked him if he could ride. My chief doubt is about Aunt 
Mary.” 

Fred’s successful disobedience in the matter of skating 
had decidedly made him less scrupulous about showing 
open disregard of his mother’s desires, and he answered in 
a certain superior, patronizing manner, ‘‘Oh, you know I 
only give way sometimes, because she does make herself 
so intensely miserable about me ; but as she will be spared 
all that now, by knowing nothing about it, I don’t think it 
need be considered.” 

Beatrice recollected wdiat her father had said, but eluded 
it the next moment, by replying to herself, that no com- 
mands had been given in this case. 

Alex stood fumbling with the button of his great-coat, 
looking much annojmd, and saying nothing; Roger called 
out to him that they could not wait all day, and he exerted 
himself to take Beatrice by the arm, and say, ‘‘ Bee, I wish 
you would not, T am sure there will be a blow-up about it 
at home.” 

‘‘ O, you think nobody can or may drive me but yourself. 
Master Alex,” said Beatrice, laughing. ‘‘No, no, I know 
very w^ell that nobody wull care when it is done, and there 
are no commands one way or the other. I love my own 
neck, I assure you, Alex, and will not get that into a 
scrape. Come, if that will put you into a better humor. 
I’ll dance with you first to-night.” 

Alex turned away, muttering, ‘‘I don’t like it — I’d go 
myself, but Well, I shall speak to Fred.” 

Beatrice smiled with triumph at the jealousy which she 
thought she had excited, and watched to see the effect of 
the remonstrance. 

“ You are sure now,” said ho, ‘‘ that you can drive safely i 


246 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


Remember it would be a tolerable piece of work if you 
were to damage that little Bee. ” 

This eloquent expostulation might have had some weight, 
if it had come from any one else; but Fred was too much 
annoyed at the superiority of his rival to listen with any 
patience, and he replied rather sullenly, that he could take 
as good care of her as Alex himself, and he only wished 
that their own horses were come from Rocksand. 

“ Well, I have no more to say,” said Alex, ” only please 
to mind this, Langford junior, you may do just as you 
please with our horse, drive him to Jericho for what I care. 
It was for your own sake and Beatrice’s that I spoke.” 

” Much obliged, Langford senior,” replied Fred, making 
himself as tall as he could, and turning round to Carey 
with a very different tone, “Now, Carey, “we won’t stop 
you any longer, if you’ll only just be so good as to tell your 
man to get out the gig.” 

Carey did so, and Beatrice and Frederick were left alone, 
but not long, for Uncle Roger presently came into the yard, 
with Willy and Arthur running after him. To take pos 
session of his horse and carriage, in his very sight, without 
permission, was quite impossible, and, besides, Beatrice 
knew full well that her dexterity could obtain a sanction 
from him, which might be made to parry all blame. So, 
tripping up to him, she explained in a droll manner the dis- 
tress in which the charade actors stood, and how the boys 
had said that they might have Dumple to drive to Allonfield. 
Good-natured Uncle Roger, who did not see why Fred 
should not drive as well as Alex or any of his other boys, 
knew little or nothing of his- sister-in-law’s fears, and 
would, perhaps, have taken Fred’s side of the question if 
he had, did exactly as she intended, declared them per- 
fectly welcome to the use of Dumple, and sent Willy into 
the house for the driving whip. Thus authorized, Beatrice 
did not fear even her father, who was not likely to allow 
in words what a nonentity the authority of Uncle Roger 
might really be esteemed. 

Willy came back with a shilling in his hand, and an en- 
treaty that he might go with Queen Bee and Fred, to buy a 
cannon for the little ships, of which Roger’s return always 
produced a whole fleet at Sutton Leigh. His cousins were in 
a triumphant temper of good nature, and willingly con- 
senting he was perched between them; but for one mo- 
ment Beatrice’s complacency was diminished, as Uncle 
Roger called out, ‘ ‘ Ha ! Fred, take care ! What are you 
doing? You’ll be against the gate-post. Don’t bring his 
head so short round. If you don’t take more care, you’ll 
certainly come to a smash before you get home.” 

If honor and credit had not been concerned, both 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, $47 

Beatrice and Frederick would probably have been much 
better satisfied to have given up their bold design after 
this debut, but they were far too much bent on their own 
way to yield, and Fred’s pride would never have allowed 
him to acknowledge that he felt himself unequal to the 
task he had so rashly undertaken. Uncle Roger, believ- 
ing it to be onl3^ carelessness instead of ignorance, and too 
much used to dangerous undertakings of his own boj^s to 
have many anxieties on their account, let them go on 'with • 
out further question, and turned off to visit his j oiing 
wheat without the smallest uneasiness respecting the smash 
he had predicted, as he had done, by way of warning, at 
least twenty times before. 

Busy Bee was in that stage of girlhood which is very 
sensible on some points, in the midst of great foll}^ upon 
others, and she was quite wise enough to let Fred alone, to 
give full attention to his driving all the way to Allonfield. 
Dumple knew perfectly well what was required of him, and 
went on at a very steady well-behaved pace, up the hill, 
across the common, and into the town, M here, leaving him 
at the inn, they walked into the street, and Beatrice, after 
an infinity of searching, succeeding in obtaining certain 
gra^' cotton velvet, which, though Fred asserted that don- 
kej'S had a tinge of lilac, was certainly not unfit to rep- 
resent their color. As Fred’s finances were in a much more 
flourishing state since New Year’s Da3^ he proceeded to de- 
light the very heart of Willy, by a present of a pair of lit- 
tle brass cannon, on which his longing eyes had often be- 
fore been fixed, and they then returned to the carriage, in 
some dismay on perceiving that it was nearlj” one o’clock, 

“We must go straight home,” said Beatrice, “or this 
velvet will be of no use. There is no time to drive to Sut- 
ton Leigh and walk from thence.” 

Unfortunately, however, there was an influential per- 
sonage, who was b3' no means willing to consent to this ar- 
rangement, namely, Dumple, who, well aware that an 
inexperienced hand held the reins, was privatelj^ determined 
that his nose should not be turned away from the shortest 
road to his own stable. 

As soon, therefore, as he came to the turning toward 
Sutton Leigh, he made a decided dash in that direction. 
Fred pulled him sharply, and a little nervously; the horse 
resisted; Fred gave him a cut with the whip, but Dumple 
felt that he had the advantage, and, replying with a dem 
onstration of kicking, suddenly whisked round the corner, 
and set off over the rough, jolting road at a pace verj' 
like running away. Fred pulled hard, but the horse went 
the faster. He stood up. “ Sit still, ” cried Beatrice, now 
speaking for the first time, “the gate will stop him ;” but 


248 


HENRIETTA'S WISH 


ere the words were uttered, Frederick, whether by a move 
ment of his owji or the rapid motion of the carriage, she 
knew not, was thrown violently to the ground ; and as she 
was whirled on, she saw him no moi'e. Instinct, rather 
than presence of mind, made her hold fast to the carriage 
with one hand, and throw the other arm round little 
Willy, to prevent him from being thrown out, as they 
were shaken from side to side by the ruts and stones over 
which they were jolted. A few minutes more, and their 
wav was barred by a gate — that which she had spoken of 
— the horse, used to stopping there, slackened his pace and 
stood still, looking over it as if nothing had Jiappened. 

Trembling in every limb, Beatrice stood safel}’ on the 
ground, and Willy beside her. Without speaking, she hur 
ried back to seek for Fred, her steps swifter than they had 
ever before been, though to herself it seemed as if her feet 
were of lead, and the very throbbing of her heart dragged 
her back. In every bush she fancied she saw Fred coming 
to meet her, but it was only for a moment, and at length 
she saw him but too plainly. He was stretche‘d at full 
length on the ground, senseless— motionless. She sunk 
rather than knelt down beside him, and called him ; but 
not a token was there that he heard her. She lifted his 
hand, it fell powerless, and clasping her own, she sat in an 
almost unconscious state of horror, till roused by little 
Willy, Avho asked in a terrified, breathless Avhisper: 

‘ Bee^ is he dead?” 

‘No, no, no,” cried she, as if she could frighten away 
her own fears, “he is only stunned. He is— he must be 
alive He will come to Himself. Help me to lift him up — 
here— that is it— his head on my lap ” 

‘ O the blood !” said Willy, recoiling in increased fear, 
as he saw it streaming from one or two deep cuts and 
bruises on the side of the face. 

“That is not the worst,” said Beatrice. “There -hold 
him toward the wind.’' She raised his head, untied his 
handkercliief, and hung over him; but there was not a 
sound, not a breath ; his head sunk a dead Aveight on her 
knee. She locked her hands together, and gazed round 
wildly for help; but no one all over the wide, lonely com 
mon could be seen, except Willy, who stood helplessly 
looking at her. 

“Aunt Mary! O Aunt Mary!” cried she, in a tone of 
the bitterest anguish of mind. “ Fred— dear, dear Freddy, 
open your eyes, answer me! Oh, only speak to me! 6 
what shall I do?” 

“Pray to God,” Avhispered Willy. 

“ You— you— Willy ; I can’t -it was my doing. O Aunt 
Mary!’ A feAv moments passed in silence, then she ex- 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


S49 


claimed, “What are we doin^ here? Willy, you must go 
and call them. The Hall is nearest; go through the 
plantation as fast as you can. Go to papa in the study; if 
he is not there, find grandpapa— any one but Aunt Mary. 
Mind, Willy, don’t let her hear it, it would kill her. Go, 
fly! You understand— any one but Aunt Mary.” 

Greatly relieved at being sent out of the sight of that 
senseless form, Willy required no second bidding, but 
rushed off at a pace which bade fair to bring him to the 
Hall in very brief space. Infinite were the ramifications 
of thought that now began to chase each other over the 
surface of her mind, as she sat supporting her cousin’s 
head, all clear ai id distinct, yet all overshadowed by that 
agony of suspense which made her sit as if she was all eye 
and ear, watching for the slightest motion, the faintest 
sound, that hope might seize as a sign of life. She wiped 
away the blood which was streaming from the cuts in the 
face, and softly laid her trembling hand to seek for some 
trace of a blow amid the fair shining hair; she felt the 
pulse, but she could not satisfy herself whether it beat or 
not ; she rubbed the cold hand between both her own, and 
again and again started with the hope that the long black 
eyelashes were being lifted from the white cheek, or that 
she saw a quivering of lip or nostril. All this while her 
thoughts were straying miles away, and yet so wondrously 
and painfully present. 

As she thought of her Uncle Frederick, and, as it were, 
realized his death, which had happened so nearly in this 
same manner, she experienced a sort of heart-sinking 
which would almost make her believe in a fate on the 
family. And that Fred should be cut off in the midst of 
an act of disobedience, and she the cause! O thought 
beyond endurance! She tried to pray for him, for herself, 
for her aunt, but no prayer would come ; and suddenly she 
found her mind pursuing Willy, following him through all 
the gates and gaps, entering the garden, opening the study 
door, seeing her father’s sudden start, hearing poor Henri 
etta’s' cry, devising how it would be broken to her aunt, 
and again, the misery of recollecting her overpowered her, 
and she gave a groan, the very sound of which thrilled her 
with the hope that Fred was reviving, and made her, if 
possible, watch with double iiitenseness, and then utter a 
desponding sigh. She wished it was she who lay there, 
unconscious of such exceeding wretchedness, and, strangu 
to say, her imagination began to devise all that would be 
said were it really so; what all her acquaintance would 
say of the little Queen Bee, how soon Matilda St. Leger 
would forget her, liow long Henrietta would cherish the 
tfiouglit of her, how deeply and silently Alex would grieve. 


Sr>0 ■ HENRIETTA'S WISH. 

“ He would be a son to papa,” she thought; but then came 
a picture of her home, her father and mother without their 
only one, and tears came into her eyes, which she brushed 
away, almost smiling at the absurdity of crying for her 
own imagined death, instead of weeping over this but too 
positive and present distress. 

There was nothing to interrupt her; Fred lay as lifeless 
as before, and not a creature passed along the lonely road. 
The frosty air was perfectly still, and through it sounded 
the barking of dogs, the tinkle of the sheep-bell, the wood- 
man’s ax in the plantations, and now and then the rattle 
of Dumple’s harness as he shook his head or shifted his 
feet at the gate where lie had been left standing. The 
rooks wheeled over her head in a clear blue sky, the little 
birds answered each other from the high furze-bushes, and 
the pewits came careering near her with their broad wings, 
floating movement, and long, melancholy note-like lamen- 
tation. 

At length, far away, there sounded on the hard turnpike 
road a horse’s tread, coming nearer and nearer. Help was 
at hand! Be it who it might, some human sympathy 
would be with her, and that most oppressive solitude, 
which seemed to have lasted for years instead of minutes, 
would be relieved. In almost an agony of nervousness 
lest the new-comer might pass by, she gently laid her 
cousin’s head on the grass, and flew rather than ran toward 
the opening of the lane. She was too late, the horseman 
had passed, but she recognized the shining hat, the form 
of the shoulders, and with a scream almost wild in its en- 
ergy, she called : “Philip! Oh, Philip Carey !” 

Joy, joy ! he looked back, he turned his horse, and came 
up in amazement at finding her there, and asking ques- 
tions which she could only answer by leading the way 
down the lane. 

In another moment he was off his horse, and she could 
almost have adored him when she heard him pronounce 
that Frederick lived. 

A few moments passed whilst he was handling his pa- 
tient, and asking questions, when Beatrice beheld some 
figures advancing from the plantation. She dashed 
through the heath and furze to meet them, sending her 
voice before her with the good news: “ He is alive! Philip 
Carey says he is alive!” and with these words she stood 
before her father and her Aunt Mary. 

Her aunt seemed neither to see nor hear her ; but with a 
face as white and still as a marble figure, hastened on. 
Mr. Geoffrey Langford stopped for an instant and looked 
at her with an expression such as she never could forget. 
“ Beatrice, my child!” he exclaimed, “ you are hurt!” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 351 

“No, no, papa.” sho cried. “It is Fred’s blood— I am 
quite, quite safe!” 

He held her in his arms, pressed her close to him, and 
kissed her brow, with a whispered exclamation of fervent 
thankfulness. Beatrice could never remember that mo- 
ment without tears; the tone, the look, the embrace— all 
had revealed to her the fervor of her father’s affection, 
beyond— far beyond all that she had ever imagined. It 
was but for one instant that he thus gave way ; the next, 
he was hastening on, and stood beside Frederick as soon 
as his sister-in-law. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The drawing-room at Knight Sutton Hall was in that 
state of bustle incidental to the expectation of company, 
which Avas sure to prevail wherever Mrs. Langford reigned. 
She walked about, removing the covers from chairs and 
ottomans, shaking out curtains, adjusting china, and ap- 
pealing to Mrs. Frederick Langford in various matters of 
taste, though never allowing her to move or assist her. 
Henrietta, however, often came to her help, and Avas cer- 
tainly acting in a way to incur the severe displeasure of 
the absent queen, by laying aside Midas’ robes to assist in 
the arrangements. “ That picture is crooked, I am sure!” 
said Mrs. Langford ; and of course she Avas not satisfied 
till she had summoned Geoffrey from the study to give his 
opinion, and had made him mount upon a chair to settle its 

g osition. In the midst of the operation, in Avalked Uncle 
loger. 

“ Hollo! Geoffrey, Avhat are you up to now? So, ma’am, 
you are making yourself smart to day. Where is my 
father?” 

“ He has ridden over to see the South Farm,” said Mrs. 
Langford. , . 

“ Ohoi got out of the way of the beautifying— I under- 

“ Have you seen anything of Fred and Busy Bee?” asked 
Mrs. Frederick Langford. “They went out directly after 
breakfast to walk to Sutton Leigh, and I have not seen 
them since.” . , 

“Ob, yes,” said Mr. Roger Langford, “I can tell you 
Avhat has become of them ; they are gone to Allonfield. I 
have just seen them off in the gig, and Will with them, 
after some of their acting affairs.” 

Good, easy man ; he little thought Avhat a thunder clap 
Avas this intelligence. Uncle Geoffrey turned round on his 
elevation to look him full in the face; every shade of color 


252 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


left the countenance of Mrs. Frederick Langford. Hen- 
rietta let her work fall, and looked up in dismay. 

“You don’t mean that Fred was driving?’’ said her 
mother. 

“ Yes, I do! Why, my hoys can drive long before they 
are that age — sure he knows how !” 

“Oh, Roger, what have you done?” said she, faintly, as 
if the exclamation would break from her in spite of her- 
self. 

“ Indeed, mamma,” said Henrietta, alarmed at her pale- 
ness, “ I assure you Fred has often told me how he lias 
driven our own horses when he was sitting up by Daw- 
son.” 

“Ay, ay, Mary,” said Uncle Roger, “never fear. De- 
pend upon it, boys do many and many a thing that mam- 
mas never guess at, and come out with whole bones after 
all.” 

Henrietta, meantime, was attentively watching Uncle 
Geoffrey’s face, in hopes of discovering what he thought 
of the danger ; but she could learn nothing, for he kept his 
features as composed as possible. 

“I do believe those children are gone crazy about their 
acting,” said Mrs. Langford; “ and how Mr. Langford can 
encourage them in it I cannot think. So silly of Bee to go 
off in this way, when she might just as well have sent by 
Martin!” And her head being pretty much engrossed with 
her present occupation, she went out to obey a summons 
from the kitchen, without much perception of the con- 
sternation that prevailed in the drawing-room. 

“Did you know they were going, Henrietta?” asked 
Uncle Geoffrey, rather sternly. 

“No! I thought they meant to send Alex. But 

Uncle, do you think there is any danger?” exclaimed she, 
losing self-control in the infection of fear caught from the 
mute terror which she saw her mother struggling to over- 
come. Her moth(U'’s inquiring, imploring glance followed 
her question. 

“Foolish children!” said Uncle Geoffrey, “I am very 
much vexed with the Bee for her willfulness about this 
scheme, but as for the rest, there is hardly a steadier ani- 
mal than old Dumple, and he is pretty well used to young 
hands.” 

Henrietta thought him quite satisfied, and even her 
mother was in some degree tranquilized, and would have 
been more so, had not Mr. Roger Langford begun to reason 
with her in the following style: “Come, Mary, you need 
not be in the least alarmed. It is quite nonsense in yon. 
You know a boy of any spirit will always be doing thing- 
t hat sound imprudent. I would not give a farthing fur 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


253 


Fred if he was always to be the mamma’s boy j^ou would 
make him. He is come to an age now when you cannot 
keep him up in that way, and he must get knocked about 
some time or other.” 

” Oh, yes, I know I am very foolish,” said she, trying to 
smile. 

“I shall send up Elizabeth to talk to you,” said Uncle 
Roger. ‘ ‘ She would have a pretty life of it if she went 
into such a state as you do on all such occasions.” 

‘ ‘ Enough to break the heart of ten horses, as they say 
in Ireland,” said Uncle Geoffrey, seeing that the best 
chance for her was to appear at his ease, and divert her 
brother’s attention. “And by the bye, Roger, you never 
told me if you heard any more of your poor Irish hay- 
makers.” 

” Why, Geoffrey, you have an absent fit now for once in 
your life,” said his brother. ” Are you the man to ask if 
I heard any more of them, Avhen you ymurself gave me a 
sovereign to send them in the famine?” 

Uncle Geoffrey, however, persevered, and finally suc- 
ceeded in starting Uncle Roger upon his favorite and inex- 
liaustible subject of the doings .at the Allonfield Union. 
During this time Mrs. Frederick Langford put a few 
stitches into her work, found it would not do, and paused, 
stood up, seemed to be observing the new arrangements in 
the room — then took a long look out of the window, and at 
last left the room. Henrietta ran after her to assure her 
that she Avas convinced that Uncle Geoffrey was not 
alarmed, and to beg her to set her mind at rest. ” Thank 
you, my dear.” said she. ” I— no, I really— you know hoAv 
foolish I am, my dear, and I think I had rather be alone. 
Don’t stay here and frighten yourself, too; this is only my 
usual fright, and it will be better if I am left alone. Go 
down, my dear, think about something else, and let me 
know when they come home.” 

With considerable reluctance Henrietta was obligreH tr. 
obev, and descended to the drawing-room, where the hrst 
words that met her ears were from Uncle Roger. \a ell, 
I wish with all my heart, they were safe at home again. 
But do you mean to say, Geoffrey, that I ought not to have 
let them go?” 

“I shall certainly come upon you for damages, if he 
breaks the neck of little Bee,” said Uncle Geoffrey. 

“ If I had guessed it,” said Uncle Roger; ” but then, yon 
know any of my boys would think nothing of driving 
Dumple— even Dick I hav^e trusted— and they came up— you 
should have seen them— as confidently as if he had been 
driving four in-hand every day of his life. Upon my word, 


254 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


your daughter has a tolerable spirit of her own, if she 
knew that he could not drive.” 

“A tolerable spirit of self-will,” said Uncle Geoffrey, 
with a sigh. “But did you see them off?— how did they 
manage?” 

“Ah! why there, I must confess, I was to blame,” said 
his brother. “They did clear out of the yard after a 
strange fashion, certainly, and I might have questioned a 
little closer. But never mind, ’tis all straight road. I 
would lay any wager they will all come back safe -boys al- 
ways do.” 

Uncle Geoffrey smiled, but Henrietta thought it a very 
bad sign that he, too, looked out at the window; and the 
confidence founded on his tranquillity deserted her. 

Uncle Roger forthwith returned to the fighting o’er 
again of his battles at the Board of Guardians, and Hen- 
rietta was able to get to the window, where for some ten 
minutes she sat, and at length exclaimed with a start: 
“ Here is Willy running across the paddock !” 

“ All right!” said Uncle Roger, “ they must have stopped 
at Sutton Leigh. ’ ’ 

It is the opposite way, ’ ’ said Mr. Geoffrey Langford , 
who at the same moment stepped up to the window. Hen 
rietta’s heart throbbed fearfully as she saw how wearied 
was the boy’s running, and yet how rapid. She could 
hardly stand as she followed her uncles to the hall. Her 
mother at the same moment came down-stairs, and all to- 
gether met the little boy as, breathless, exhausted, un- 
able to speak, he rushed into the hall and threw himself 
upon his father, leaning his head against him and clinging 
as if he could not stand. 

“ Why, Will, how now, my boy? have you been racing?” 
said his father, kneeling on one knee, and supporting the 
poor little wearied fellow, as he almost lay upon his breast 
and shoulder. “ What is the matter now?” 

There was a deep silence, only interrupted by the deep 
pnn tings of the boy Henrietta leaned on the balusters, 
giday With suspense. Uncle Geoffrey stepped into the din- 
ing-room, and brought back a glass of wine and some 
water. Aunt Mary parted the damp hair that hung over 
ms forehead, laid her cold hand on it, and said: “ Poor 
little fellow!” 

At her voice Willy looked up, clung faster to his father, 
and whispered something unintelligible. 

“ What? Has anything happened? What is the mat- 
ter? were questions anxiously asked, while Uncle Geof- 
succeeded in administering the wine ; after 
which illy managed to say, pointing to his aunt, “ Don t 
— tell— her. 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


255 


It was with a sort of ghastly composure that she leaned 
over him, saying, “ Don’t be afraid, my dear, I am ready 
to hear it.” 

He raised himself, and gazed at her in perplexity and 
wonder. Henrietta’s violently throbbing heart took from 
her almost the perception of what wa^assing. 

“Take breath, Willy,” said his fatfier; “don’t keep us 
all anxious.” 

“ Bee said I was to tell Uncle Geoffrey,” said the boy. 

“ Is she safe?” asked Aunt Mary earnestly. 

“Yes.” 

“Thanks to God,” said she, holding out her hand to 
Uncle Geoffrey, Avith a look of relief and congratulation, 
and yet of inexpressible mournfulness Avhich went to his 
heart. 

“ And Fred?” said Uncle Roger. 

“ Do not ask, Roger,” said she, still as calmly as before; 
“ I alwaj^s kneAv how it would be.” 

Henrietta tried to exclaim, to inquire, but her lips would 
not frame one word, her (tongue would not leave the roof 
of her mouth. She heard a few confused sounds, and then 
a mist came over her eyes, a rushing of waters in her ears, 
and she sunk on the ground in a fainting fit. When she 
came to herself she Avas lying on the sofa in the draAving- 
room, and all was still. 

“Mamma!” said she. 

“ Here, dear child ’’ — but it Avas Mrs. Langford’s voice. 

“Mammal” again said she. “Where is mamma? 
Where are they all? Why does the room turn round?” 

“You haA^e not been well, my dear,” said her grand- 
mother; “but drink this, and lie still, you Avill soon be bet- 
ter.” 

“Where is mamma?” repeated Henrietta, gazing round 
and seeing no one but Mrs. Langford and Bennet. “Was 
she frightened at my being ill? Tell her I am better.” 

“She knows it, my dear; lie still, and try to go to 
sleep. ’ ’ 

“But Averen’t there a great many people?” said Henri- 
etta. “Were we not in the hall? Did not Willy come? 
Oh, grandmamma, grandmamma, do tell me, where are 
mamma and Fred?” 

“ They will soon be here, I hope.” 

“But, grandmamma,” cried she, vehemently, turning 
herself round as clearer recollection returned, “something 
has happened — oh! Avhat has happened to Fred?” 

“Nothing very serious, Ave hope, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Langford. “ It Avas Willy Avho frightened you. Fred has 
had a fall, and your mamma and uncles are gone to see 
about him.” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


'm 

“A fall! Oh, tell me, tell me! T am sure it is some 
thing dreadful ! Oh, tell me all about it, grandmamma, is 
he much hurt? Oh, Freddy, Freddy!’’ 

With more quietness than could have been anticipated 
from so active and bustling a nature, Mrs. Langford grad 
ually told her granddaughter all that she knew, which was 
but little, as she had been in attendance on her, and had 
only heard the main fact of Willy’s story. Henrietta 
clasped her hands wildly together in an agony of grief. 

He is killed— he is, I'm sure of it !” said she. “ Why do 
you not tell me so?” 

“ My dear, I trust and believe that he is only stunned.’’ 

‘ ‘ No, no, no ! papa was killed hi that way, and I am sure 
he is ! O, Fred, Fred, my own dear, dear brother, my only 
one! 0, I cannot bear it! O, Fred!” 

She rose up from the sofa, and walked up and down the 
room in an ecstasy of sorrow. ” And it was I that helped 
to bring him here! It was my doing! O, my own, my 
dearest, my twin brother! I cannot live without him!” 

“Henrietta,” said Mrs. Langford, “you do not know 
what you are saying ; you must bear the will of God, be it 
what it may.” 

“I can’t, I canwof,” repeated Henrietta; “if I am to 
lose him I can’t live; I don’t care for anything without 
Fred!” 

“Your mother, Henrietta.” 

“ Mamma! 0, don’t speak of her; she would die; I am 
sure she would, without him ; and then I should too, for I 
should have nothing.” 

Henrietta’s grief was the more ungovernable that it was 
chiefly selfish; there was little thought of her mother- 
little, indeed, for anything but the personal loss to herself. 
She hid her face in her hands, and sobbed violently, 
though without a tear, while Mrs. Langford vainly tried to 
make her hear of patience and resignation, turning away, 
and saying, “I can’t be patient— no, I can’t!” and then 
again repeating her brother’s name with all the fondest 
terms of endearment. 

Then came a sudden change; it was possible that he yet 
lived— and she became certain that he had been only 
stunned for a moment, and required her grandmamma to 
be so too. Mrs. Langford, at the risk of a cruel disappoint 
ment, was willing to encourage her hope; but Henrietta, 
fancying herself treated like a petted child, chose to insist 
on being told really and exactly what was her view of the 
case. Then she was urgent to go out and meet the others, 
and learn the truth ; but this Mrs. Langford would not 
permit. It was in kindness to spare her some fearful 
sight, which might shock and startle her, but Henrietta 


HENRIETTA'^S WISH. 


257 


\vas far from taking it so; her habitual want of submission 
made itself felt in spite of her usual gentleness, now that 
she had been thrown off her balance, and she burst into a 
passionate fit of weeping. 

In such a dreadful interval of suspense, her conduct was, 
perhaps, scarcely under her own control ; and it is scarcely 
just to mention it as a subject of blame. But be it remem 
bered that it was the effect of a long previous selfishness 
and self-will ; quiet, amiable selfishness; gentle, caressing 
self-will ; but no less real, and more perilous and deceitful. 
But for this, Henrietta would have thought more of her 
mother, prepared for her comfort, and braced herself in 
order to be a support to her; she would have remembered 
how terrible must be the shock to her grandmother in her 
old age, and how painful must be the remembrances thus 
excited of the former bereavement ; and in the attempt to 
console her, the sense of her own sorrow would have been 
in some degree relieved ; whereas she now seemed to forget 
that Frederick was anything to any one but herself. She 
prayed, but it was one wild repetition of “ Oh. give him 
back to me! save his life! let him be safe and well!’’ She 
had no room for any other entreaty ; she did not call for 
strength and resignation on the part of herself and her 
mother, for whatever might be appointed ; she did not pray 
that his life might be granted only if it was for his good : 
she could ask nothing but that her own beloved brother 
might be spared to herself, and she ended her prayer as 
unsubdued, and therefore as miserable, as when she began 
it. 

The first intelligence that arrived was brought by Uncle 
Roger and Beatrice, who, rather to their surprise, came 
back in the gig, and greatly relieved their minds with the 
intelligence of Frederick’s life, and of Philip Carey’s ar- 
rival. Henrietta had sprung eagerly up on their first en- 
trance, with parted lips and earnest eyes, and listened to 
their narration with trembling, throbbing hope, but with 
scai;pely a word ; and when she heard that Fred still lay 
senseless and motionless, she again turned away, and hid 
her face on the arm of the sofa, without one look at Bea- 
trice, reckless of the pang that shot through the heart of 
one fresh from that trying watch over her brother. Bea- 
trice longed for one word, one kiss, and looked wistfully at 
the long veil of half uncurled ringlets that floated over the 
crossed arms on which her forehead rested, and mean- 
time submitted with a kind of patient indifference to her 
grandmother's cares, drank hot wine and water, sat by the 
nre, and finally was sent up -stairs to change her dress. 
Too restless, too anxious, too wretched to stay there alone, 
longing for some interchange of sympathy- -but her mind 


058 


HENHIETTA^^ WISH. 


too turbid with agitation to seek it where it \vould surely 
have been found— she hastened down again. Grand- 
mamma was busied in giving directions for the room which 
was being prepared for Fred; Uncle Roger had walked out 
to meet those wlio were conveying him home; and Henri- 
etta was sitting in the window, her forehead resting against 
the glass, watching intently for their arrival. 

“Are they coming?” asked Beatrice, anxiously. 

“No!” was all the answer, hardly uttered, and without 
looking round, as if her cousin’s entrance was perfectly in- 
different to her. Beatrice went up and stood by her, look- 
ing out for a few minutes ; then taking the hand that laj" 
in her lap, she said in an imploring whisper, ‘ ‘ Henrietta, 
you forgive me?’ 

The hand lay limp and listless in hers, and Henrietta 
scarcely raised her face as she answered, in a low, languid, 
dejected voice, “Of course. Bee; only I am so wretched. 
Don’t talk to me,” 

Her head sunk again, and Beatrice stepped hastily back 
to the fire, with a more bitter feeling than she had ever 
known. This was no forgiveness ; it was worse than anger 
or reproach; it was a repulse, and that when her whole 
heart was yearning to relieve the pent-up oppression that 
almost choked her by weeping with her. She leaned her 
burning forehead on the cool marble chimney-piece, and 
longed for her mother — longed for her almost as much for 
her papa's, her aunt Mary’s, and her grandmother’s sake, 
as for her own. But oh ! what an infinite relief would one 
talk with her have been ! She turned toward the table, and 
thought of Avriting to her, but her hand was trembling — 
every pulse throbbing; she could not even sit still enough 
to make the attempt. 

At last she saw Henrietta spring to her feet, and hasten- 
ing to the window beheld the melancholy procession ; Fred 
carried on a mattress by Uncle Geoffrey and three of the 
laborers, Philip Carey walking at one side, and on the 
other Mrs Frederick Langford leaning on Uncle Roger’s 
arm. ^ 

Both girls hurried out to meet them, but all attention 
was at that moment for the patient, as he was carried in 
on the matt ress, and deposited for a few minutes on the 
large hall table. Henrietta pushed between her uncles, 
and made her way up to him, unconscious of the presence 
of any one else— even of her mother— while she clasped 
his hand, and hanging ov^er him looked with an agonized 
intensity at his motionless features. The next moment 
she felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder, and was 
forced to turn round and look into her face the sweet, 
mournful meekness of which came for a moment like a 


lIENltlETTA'S WISH. 259 

soft cooling breeze upon the dry burning desert of her 
grief. 

“ M}" poor child,” said the gentle voice. 

“ O mamma, is— is ?” She could not speak; her face 

was violently agitated, and the very muscles of her throat 
quivered. 

“ They hope for the best, my dear,” was the reply ; but 
both Mr. Geoffrej^ Langford and Beatrice distinguished 
her own hopelessness in the intonation, and the very form 
of the expression; whereas Henrietta only took in and 
eagerly seized the idea of comfort which it was intended 
to convey to her. She would have inquired more, but 
Mrs. Langford was telling her mother of the arrangements 
she had made, and entreating her to take some rest. 

“Thank you, ma’am— thank you very much indeed — 
you are very kind; I am very sorry to give so much 
trouble, ’ ’ were her answers , and simple as were the words, 
there was a whole world of truth and reality in them. 

Preparations were now made for carrying Fred up 
stairs, but even at that moment Aunt Mary was not with 
out thought for Beatrice, who was retreating, as if she 
feared to be as much in her way as she had been in Henri 
ettas. 

“ I did not see you before, Queenie, ” said she, holding 
out her hand and kissing her; “yoii have gone through 
more than any one.” 

A thrill of fond, grateful affection brought the tears into 
C^ueen Bee’s eyes. How much there was even in the pro 
nunciation of that pet, playful name to touch her heart, 
and fill it to overflowing with love and contrition! She 
longed to pour out her whole confession, but there was no 
one to attend to her— the patient occupied the whole atten 
tion of all. He was carried to his mother’s room, placed 
in bed, and again examined by young Mr. Carey, who pro 
nounced with increased confidence tliat there was no fract- 
ure. and gave considerable hopes of improvement. While 
this was passing, Henrietta sat on the upper step of the 
stairs, her head on her hands, scarcely moving or answer 
ing when addressed. As evening twilight began to close 
in, the surgeon left the room, and went down to make his 
report to those who were anxiously awaiting it in the 
drawing-room ; and she took advantage of his exit to come 
to the door, and beg to be let in. 

Uncle Geoffrey admitted her, and her mother, Avho was 
sitting by the bedside, held out her hand. Henrietta came 
up to her, and at first stood by her, intently watching her 
brother ; then after a time sat down on a footstool, and, 
with her head resting on her mother’s lap, gave herself up 
to a sort of quiet, heavy dream, which might be called the 


260 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


very luxury of grief. Uncle Geoffrey sat by the fire, 
watching his sister-in-law even more anxiously than the 
patient, and thus a considerable interval passed in complete 
silence, only broken by the crackling of the fire, the tick 
ing of the watches, or some slight change of posture of one 
or other of the three nurses. At last the stillness was in- 
terrupted by a little movement among the bedclothes, and 
with a feeling like transport, Henrietta saw the hand, 
which had hitherto lain so still and helpless, stretched 
somewhat out, and the head turned upon the pillow. 
Uncle Geoffrey stood up, and Mrs. Frederick Langford 
pressed her daughter’s hand with a sort of convulsive 
tremor. A faint voice murmured “ Mamma!” and while a 
flush of trembling joy illumined her pale face, she bent 
over him, answering him eagerly and fondly, but he did 
not seem to know her, and again repeating “mamma,” 
opened his eyes Avith a A^acant gaze, and tried in vain to 
express some complaint. 

In a short time, however, he regained a partial degree of 
consciousness. He knew his mother, and was continually 
calling to her, as if for the sake of feeling her presence, but 
without recognizing any other person, not even his sister 
or his uncle. Henrietta stood gazing sadly upon him, while 
his mother hung over him, soothing his restlessness, and 
answering his half uttered complaints, and Uncle Geoffrey 
Avas ever ready with assistance and comfort to each in 
turn, as it was needed, and especially supporting his sister- 
in-law with that sense of protection and reliance so precious 
to a sinking heart. 

Aunt Roger came up to announce that dinner was ready, 
and to beg that she might stay Avith Fred while the rest 
Avent down. Mrs. Frederick Langford only shook her 
head, and thanked her, saying with a painful smile that it 
was impossible, but begging Uncle Geoffrey and Henrietta 
to go. The former complied, knowing hoAv much alarm his 
absence Avould create down stairs ; but Henrietta declared 
that she could not bear the thoughts of going down, and it 
Avas only by a positive order that he succeeded in making 
her come with him. Gf^ndpapa kissed her, and made her 
sit by him, and grandmamma loaded her plate with all 
that Avas best on the table, but she looked at it with dis- 
gust, and leaning back in her chair, faintly begged not to 
be asked to eat. 

Uncle Geoffrey poured out a glass of wine, and said, in a 
tone Avhich startled her by its unAvonted severity, ‘ ‘ This 
Avill not do, Henrietta ; I cannot alloAv you to add to yoUr 
mamma’s troubles by making yourself ill. I desire you 
Avill eat, as you certainly can.” 

Every one Avas taken by surprise, and perhaps Mrs 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 




Langford might have interfered, but for a sign from giciud- 
papa. Henrietta, with a feeling of being cruelly treated, 
silently obeyed; swalloAved down the wine, and having 
done so, found herself capable of making a very tolerable 
dinner, by which she w-as? greatly revived and refreshed. 

Uncle Geoffrey said a few cheering words to his father 
and mother, and returned to Fred’s room as soon as he 
could, without giving that appearance of hurry and anx- 
iety which \vould have increased their alarm, Henrietta, 
without the same thoughtfulness, rushed rather than ran 
after him, and neither of the two came down again to tea. 

Philip Carey was to stay all night, and though Beatrice 
was of course very glad that he should do so, yet she was 
much harassed by the conversation kept up with him for 
civility’s sake. She had been leading a forlorn, dreaiy life 
all the afternoon, busy first in helping grandmamma to 
write notes to be sent to the intended guests, and after- 
ward, with a feeling of intense disgust, putting out of sight 
all the preparations for their own self -chosen sport. She 
desired quiet, and yet when she found it, it was unendur- 
able, and to talk to the father or grandfather would be a 
great relief, yet the first begmning might well be dreaded. 
Neither of them was forthcoming, and now in the evening 
to hear the quiet, grave discussion of Allonfield gossip was 
excessively harassing and irritating. No one spoke for 
their own pleasure, the thoughts of all were elsewhere, and 
they only talked thus for the sake of politeness ; but she 
gave them no credit for this, and felt fretted and wearied 
beyond bearing. Even this, however, was better than 
when they did return to the engrossing thought, and spoke 
of the accident, requiring of her a more exact and particu- 
lar account of it. She hurried over it. Grandmamma 
praised her, and each word was a sting. 

“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Roger Langford, “what 
could have made you so anxious to go to Allonfield?” 

“O, Aunt Roger, it was very ” but here Beatrice, 

whose agitated spirits made her particularly accessible to 
momentary emotion, was seized Avith such a sense of the 
absurdity of undertaking so foolish an expedition, with no 
other purpose than going to buy a pair of ass’ ears, and 
she was overpowered by a violent fit of laughing. Grand- 
mamma and Aunt Roger, after looking at her in amaze- 
ment for a moment, both darted up and came toward her 
with looks of alarm that set her off again still more uncon- 
trollably. She struggled to speak, but that only made 
it wor.se, and Avhen she perceived that she was supposed to 
be hysterical, she laughed the more, though the laughter 
was positive pain. Once slie fora moment succeeded in 
recovering some degree of composure, but every kind de- 


m heMhetta'S wish. 

monstmtion of solicitude brought on a fresh access of 
laughter, and a certain whispering threat of calling Philip 
Carey was worse than all. When, however, Aunt Roger 
was actually setting off for the purpose, the dread of his 
coming had a salutary effect, and enabled her to make a 
violent effort, by which she composed herself, and at 
length sat quite kill, except for the trembling, which she 
could not control. 

Grandmamma and Aunt Roger united in ordering her to 
bed, but she could not bear to go without seeing her papa, 
nor would she accept Mrs. Langford’s offer of calling him; 
and at last a compromise was made that she should go up 
to bed, on condition that her papa should come and visit 
her when he came out of Fred’s room. Her grandmamma 
came up with her, helped her to undress, gave her the un- 
wonted indulgence of a fire, and summoned Judith to pre- 
pare things as quickly and quietly as possible for Henri- 
etta, who was to sleep with her that night. It was with 
much difficulty that she could avoid making a promise to 
go to bed immediately, and not to get up to breakfast. At 
last, with a very affectionate kiss, grandmamma left her to 
brush her hair, an operation which she resolved to lengthen 
out until her papa’s visit. 

It was long before he came, but at last his step was heard 
along the passage, his knock was at her door. She flew to 
it, and stood before him, her large black eyes looking 
larger, brighter, blacker than usual, from the contrast with 
the pale or rather sallow face, and the white nightcap and 
dressing gown. 

“ How is Fred?” asked she, as well as her parched tongue 
would allow her to speak. 

“Much the same, only talking a little more. But why 
are you up still? Your grandmamma said ” 

“Never mind, papa,” interrupted she, “only tell me 
this— is Fred in danger?” 

“ You have heard all we can tell, my dear ” 

Beatrice interrupted him by an impatient, despairing 
look, and clasped her hands; “ I know— I know; but what 
do you think?” 

“ My own impression is, said her father, in a calm, kind, 
yet almost reproving tone, as if to warn her to repress 
her agitation, “that there is no reason to give up hope, 
although it is impossible as yet to ascertain the extent of 
the injury. ’ ’ 

Beatrice retreated a step or two ; she stood by the table, 
one hand upon it, as if for support, yet her figure quite 
erect, her eyes fixed on his face, and her voice firm, though 
husky, as she said, slowly and quietly, “ Papa, if Fred dies, 
it is my doing.” ^ f , 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


263 


His face did not express surprise or horror— nothing but 
kindness and compassion, while he answered, “My poor 
girl, I was afraid how it might have been.” Then he led 
her to a chair, and sat down by her side, so as to let her 
perceive that he was ready to listen, and would give her 
time. He might be in haste, but it was no time to show it. 

She now spoke with more hurry and agitation. “Yes, 
yes, papa, it was the very thing you warned me against— 
I mean— I mean the being set on my own way, and liking 
to tease the boys. Oh, if I could but speak to tell you all ! 
But it seems like a weight here, choking me,” and she 
touched her throat. “ I can’t get it out in words! Oh!” 
Poor Beatrice even groaned aloud with oppression. 

“ Do not try to express it,” said her father; “at least, it 
is not I who can give you the best comfort. “ Here ’’—and 
he took up a prayer-book. 

“ Yes, I feel as if I could turn there now I have told you, 
papa,” said Beatrice; “but when I could not get at you, 
everything seemed dried up in me. Not one prayer or 
confession would come — but now, O! now you know*it, and 
—and— I feel as if He would not turn away His face. Do 
you know I did try the 51st Psalm, but it" would not do, 
not even ‘ deliver me from blood guiltiness, ’ it would only 
make me shudder! O, papa, it was dreadful!” 

Her father’s answer was to draw her down on her knees 
by his side, and read a few verses of that very Psalm, and 
a few clauses of the prayer for persons troubled in mind, 
and he ended Avith the Lord’s Prayer. Beatrice, when it 
was over, leaned her head against him, and did not speak, 
noi* weep, but she seemed refreshed and relieved. Ho 
watched her anxiously and affectionately, doubting 
whether it was right to bestow so much time on her exclu- 
sively, yet unwilling to leave hei\ When she again spoke, 
it Avas in a lower, more subdued, and softer voice. “Aunt 
Mary Avill forgive me, I knoAv; you Avill tell her, papa, and 
then it Avill not be quite so bad ! Noav I can pray that he 
may' be saved— O, papa— disobedient, and I the cause ; hoAv 
could I ever bear the thought?” 

“You can only pray,” replied her father. 

“Noav that I can once more,” said Beatrice; and again 
there Avas a silence, Avhile she stood thinking deeply, but 
contrary to her usual habit, not speaking, and he knoAving 
Avell her tendency to lose her repentant feelings by express- 
ing them, Avas not Avilling to interrupt her. So they re- 
mained for nearly' ten minutes, until at last he thought it 
time to leaA'e her, and made some movement as if to do so. 
Then she spoke, “Only tell me one thing, papa. Do you 
think Aunt Mary has any hope? There Avas something - 
something death-like in her face. Does she hope?” 


264 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


Mr. Geoffrey Langford shook his head, “ Not yet,” said 
he. “I think it may be better after the first night is over. 
She is evidently reckoning the hours, and I think she has 
a kind of morbid expectation that it will be as it was with 
his father, who lived twelve hours after his accident. ” 

“ But surely, surely,” said Beatrice, eagerly, “this is a 
very different case ; Fred has spoken so much more than 
my uncle did ; and Philip says he is convinced that there 
is no fracture ’ ’ 

‘‘It is a morbid feeling,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, 
“ and therefore impossible to be reasoned away. I see she 
dreads to be told to hope ; and I shall not even attempt it 
till these fatal twelve hours are over.” 

‘‘Poor dear aunt!” sighed Beatrice. “I am glad, if it 
was to be, that you were here, for nobody else would un- 
derstand her;” 

“ Understand her !” said he, with something of a smile. 
‘‘ No, Bee, such sorrow as hers has a sacredness in it which 
is not what can be understood.” 

Beatrice sighed, and then with a look as if she saw a ray 
of comfort, said, “I suppose mamma will soon be here?” 

‘‘ I think not,” said her father; “ I shall tell her she had 
better wait to see how things go on, and keep herself in re- 
serve. At present, it is needlessly tormenting your aunt 
to ask her to leave Fred for a moment, and I do not think 
she has even the power to rest. While this goes on, I am 
of more use in attending to him than your mamma could 
be ; but if he is a long time recovering, it will be a great 
advantage to have her coming fresh, and not half knocked 
up with previous attendance.” 

‘‘ But how she will wish to be here!” exclaimed Beatrice, 
‘‘ and how you will want her!” 

‘‘No doubfc of that, Queenie,” said her father smiling, 
‘‘but we must reserve our forces, and I think she will be 
of the same mind. Well, I must go. Where is Henrietta 
to sleep to-night?” 

‘‘ With me,” said Beatrice. 

“ I will send her to you as soon as I can. You must do 
what you can with her. Bee, for I can see that the way she 
hangs on her mamma is quite oppressive. If she had but a 
little vigor!” 

‘‘I don’t know what to do about her!” said Beatrice, 
with more dejection than she had yet shown, “ I wish I 
could be of any comfort to her, but I can’t—I shall never 
do good to anybody — only harm.” 

“Fear the harm and the good will come,” said Mr. 
Geoffrey Langford. “Good night, my dear.” 

Beatrice threw herself on her knees as soon as the door 
had closed oixher father, and so remained for aconsidex-able 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


265 


time in one earnest, unexpressed outpouring of confession 
and ptayer, for how long she knew not; all that she was 
sensible of was a feeling of relief, the repose of such hu- 
mility and submission, such heart-felt contrition as she had 
never known before. 

So she continued till she heard Henrietta’s approaching 
steps, when she rose and opened the door, ready to wel- 
come her with all the affection and consolation in her 
power. There stood Henrietta, a heavy weight in her eyes, 
her hair on one side all uncurled and flattened, the color 
on half her face much deepened, and a sort of stupor about 
her whole person, as if but one idea possessed her. Beatrice 
went up to meet her, and took her candle, asking what ac- 
count she brought of the patient. “No better,” was all 
the answer, and she sat down making no more detailed an- 
swers to all her cousin’s questions. She would have done 
the same tO' her grandmamma, or any one else, so wrapped 
up was she in lier own grief, but this conduct gave more 
pain to Beatrice than it could have done to any one else, 
since it kept up that most miserable feeling of being unfor- 
given. Beatrice let "'her sit still for some minutes, looking 
at her all the time with an almost piteous glance of en- 
treaty, of which Henrietta was perfectly unconscious, and 
then began to beg her to undress, seconding the proposal 
by beginning to unfasten her dress. Henrietta moved pet- 
tishly, jas if provoked at being disturbed. 

“ I beg your pardon, dear Henrietta,” said Beatrice; “ if 
you would but let me! You will be ill to-morrow, and 
that would be worse still.” 

“No, I sha’n’t,” said Henrietta, shortly, “never mind 
me.” 

“ But I must, dear Henrietta. If you would but ” 

“ I can’t go to bed,” replied Henrietta, “ thank you. Bee, 
never mind ” 

Beatrice stood still, much distressed at her own inability 
to be of any service, and pained far more by the sight of 
Henrietta’s grief than by the unkind rejection of herself. 
“Papa thinks there is great hope,” said she, abruptly. 

“Mamma does not,” said Henrietta, edging away from 
her cousin as if to put an end to the subject. 

Beatrice almost wrung her hands. Oh, this willfulness 
of grief, how hard it was to contend with it ! At last there 
was a knock at the door— it was grandmamma, suspecting 
that they were still up. Little recked Beatrice of the 
scolding that fell on herself for not ha\'ing been in bed 
hours ago; she was only rejoiced at the determination that 
swept away all Henrietta’s feeble opposition. The bell was 
rung, Bennet was summoned, grandmamma peremptorily 
ordered her to be undressed, and in another half hour tiie 


366 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


cousins were lying side by side. Henrietta's lethargy had 
become a heavy sleep, Beatrice was broad awake, listening 
to every sound, forming every possible speculation of the 
future, and to her own overstretched fancy seeming actu 
ally to feel the thoughts chasing each other through her 
throbbing head. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ Half- PAST one,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, as if it 
was a mere casual observation, though in reality it was the 
announcement that the fatal twelve hours had passed more 
than half an hour since. 

There was no answer, but he heard a slight movement, 
and though carefully avoiding any attempt to penetrate 
the darkness around the sick bed, he knew full well that 
his sister was on her knees, and when he again heard her 
voice in reply to some rambling speech of her son, it had a 
tremulous tone, very unlike its former settled hopeless- 
ness. 

Again, when Philip Carey paid his morning visit, she 
studied the expression of his face with anxious, inquiring, 
almost hopeful eyes, the crushed, heart-broken indifference 
of yesterday had passed away, and when the expediency 
of obtaining further advice was hinted at, she caught at 
the suggestion with great eagerness, though the day before 
her only answer had been, “As you think right.” She 
spoke so as to show the greatest consideration for the feel- 
ings of Philip Carey ; then, with her usual confiding spirit, 
she left the selection of the person to be called in entirely 
to him, to her brother and father-in-law, and returned to 
her station by Frederick, who had already missed and 
summoned her. 

Philip, in spite of the small follies which provoked Bea- 
trice’s sarcasm, was by no means deficient in good sense 
or ability; his education had owed much to the counsels of 
Mr. Geoffrey Langford, whom he regarded with great rev- 
erence, and he was so conscious of his own inexperience 
and diffident of his own opinion, as to be very anxious for 
assistance in this, the first very serious case which had fallen 
under his own management. The proposal had come at 
first from himself, and this was a cause of great rejoicing to 
those who had to reconcile Mrs. Langford to the measure. 
In her eyes a doctor Avas a doctor, member of a privileged 
fraternity in which she saw no distinctions, and to send for 
advice from London Avould, she thought, not only hurt the 
feelings of Mrs. Roger Langford, and all the Carey connec- 
tion, b^ut seriously injure the reputation of young Mr. Carey 
in his own neighborhood. 


HENRIETTA\S WISH. 




Grandpapa answered, and Beatrice was glad he did so, 
that such considerations were as nothing when weighed in 
the scale against Frederick’s life; she was silenced, but un- 
convinced, and unhappy till her son Geoffrey, coming 
down late to breakfast, greatly comforted her by letting 
her make him some fresh toast with her own hands, and 
persuading her that it would be greatly in favor of Philip’s 
practice that his opinion should be confirmed by axa au- 
thority of note. 

The electric telegraph and the railroad brought the sur- 
geon even before she had begun seriously to expect him, 
and his opinion was completely satisfactory as far as re 
garded Philip Carey and the measures already taken; 
Uncle Geoffrey himself feeling convinced that his approval 
was genuine, and not merely assumed for courtesy’s sake. 
He gave them, too, more confident hope of the patient 
than Philip, in his diffidence, had ventured to do, saying 
that though there certainly was concussion of the brain, 
he thought there was great probability that the patient 
would do well, provided that they could combat the fever 
ish S3 mptoms which had begun to appear. He consulted 
with Philip Carey, the future treatment was agreed upon, 
and he left them with cheered and renewed spirits to enter 
on a long and anxious course of attendance, Roger, who 
Avas obliged to go away the next day, cheered up his brother 
Alex into a certaint}^ that Fred Avould be about again in a 
Aveek, and though no one but the boys shared this belief, 
yet the assurances of any one so sanguine, inspired them all 
with something like hope. 

The attendance at first fell almost entirely on Mrs. Fred- 
erick Langford and Uncle Geoffrey, for the patient, Avho 
had now recovered a considerable degree of consciousness, 
Avould endure no one else. If his mother’ s voice did not 
answer him the first moment, he instantly grew restless 
and uneasy, and the plaintive inquiry - “Is Uncle Geoffrey 
liere?” Avas man^' times repeated. He Avould recognize 
Henrietta, but his usual ansAver to her was: “ You speak 
so loud,” though, in reality, her tone Avas almost exactl}^ 
the same as her mother’s, and above all others he disliked 
fhe presence of Philip Carey. 

“Who is that?” inquired he, the first time that he Avas 
5it all conscious of the visits of other people; and Avhen his 
mother explained, he asked, quickly; “ Is he gone?” 

The next day, Fred Avas alive to all tliat AA^as going on, 
but suffering considerable pain, and Avith every sense 
quickened to the most acute and distressing degree; his 
eyes dazzled by light Avhich, as he declared, glanced upon 
the picture- frames in a room where his mother and uncle 
could scarce!}' see to find their way, and his ears pierced. 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


as it were, by the slightest sound in the silent house, sleep 
less with pain, incapable of thought, excessively irritable 
in temper, and his faculties, it seemed, restored only to be 
the means of suffering. Mrs. Langford came to the door 
to announce that Philip Carey was come. Mr. Geoffrey 
Langford went to speak to him, and grandmamma and 
Henrietta began to arrange the room a little for his recep- 
tion. Fred, however, soon stopped this. “I can’t bear 
the shaking,” said he. “Tell them to leave off, mamma.” 

Grandmamma, unconscious of the pain she was inflict- 
ing, and believing that she made not the slightest noise, 
continued to put the chairs in order, but Fred gave an im- 
patient, melancholy sort of groan and exclamation, and 
Mrs. Langford remarked, “Well, if he cannot bear it, it 
cannot be helped ; but it is quite dangerous in this dark 
room!” And out she went, Fred frowning with pain at 
every step she took. 

“ Why do you let people come?” asked he sharply of his 
mother. “ Where has Uncle Geoffrey gone?” 

“He is speaking to Mr. Philip Carey, my dear; he will 
be here with him directly.’’ 

“ I don’t want Philip Carey; don’t let him come.” 

“ My dear boy, he must come; he h<as not seen you to 
day; perhaps he may do something for this sad pain.” 

Fred turned away impatiently, and, at the same mo- 
ment, Uncle Geoffrey opened the door, to ask if Fred was 
ready. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, and Philip en- 
tered. But Fred would not turn toward him till desired 
to do so, nor give his hand readily for his pulse to be felt. 
Philip thought it necessary to see his face a little more 
distinctly, and begged his pardon for having the window- 
shutters partly open; but Fred contrived completely to 
frustrate his intentions, as with an exclamation, which had 
in it as much of anger as of pain, he turned his face inward 
to the pillow, and drew the bed-clothes over it. 

“My dear boy,” said his mother, pleadingly, “for one 
moment only'!’’ 

“I told you I could not bear the light,” was all the 
reply. 

“If you would but oblige me fora few seconds,” said 
Philip. 

“ Fred 1” said his uncle, gravely, and Fred made a slight 
demonstration as if to obey, but at the first glimpse of the 
dim light, he hid his face again, saying, “I can’t;” and 
Philip gave up the attempt, closed the shutter, unfort- 
unately not quite as noiselessly as Uncle Geoffrey had 
opened it, and proceeded to ask sundry questions ; to which 
the patient scarcely vouchsafed a short and pettish reply . 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


2m 


When at last he quitted the room, and was followed by 
Mrs. Frederick Langford, a “Don’t go, mamma,” was im 
mediately heard. 

“You must spare me for a very little while, my dear,” 
said she, gently but steadily. 

“ Don’t stay long, then,” replied he. 

Uncle Geoffrey came up to his bedside, and with a touch 
soft and light as a woman’s arranged the coverings dis- 
turbed by his restlessness, and for a few moments suc- 
ceeded in tranquilizing him, but almost immediately he re- 
newed his entreaties that his mother would return, and 
had it been any other than his uncle who had taken her 
place, would have grumbled at his not going to call her. 
On her return, she was greeted with a discontented mur- 
mur: “ What an immense time you have stayed away !” — 
presently after, “I wish you would not have that Carey!” 
and then, “I wish we were at Rocksand — I wish Mr. 
Clarke was here.” 

Patience in illness is a quality so frequently described in 
books, as well as actually found in real life, that we are 
apt to believe that it comes as a matter of course, and 
without previous training, particularly in the young, and 
that peevishness is especially reserved for the old and 
querulous, who are to try the amiability of the heroine. 
To a certain degree this is often the case ; the complete 
prostration of strength, and the dim awe of approaching 
death, in the acute illnesses of the young, often tame down 
the stubborn or petulant temper, and their patience and 
forbearance become the wonder and admiration of those 
who have seen germs of far other dispositions. And when 
this is not the case, who would have the heart to complain? 
Certainly not those who are like the mother and uncle 
who had most to endure from the exacting humors of 
Frederick Langford. High spirits, excellent health, a cer- 
tain degree of gentleness of character, and a home where, 
though he was not over indulged, there was little to ruffle 
him, all had hitherto combined to make him appear one of 
the most amiable, g-ood-tempered boys that ever existed; 
but there was no substance in this apparent good quality, 
it was founded on no real principle of obedience or submis 
sion, and when to an habitual spirit of quiet determination 
to have his own way, was superadded the irritability of 
nerves which was a part of his illness, when his powers of 
reflection were too much weakened to endure or compre- 
hend argument; when, in fact, nothing was left to fall back 
upon but the simple obedience which would have been re- 
quired in a child, and when that obedience was wanting, 
what could result but increased discomfort to himself and 
all concerned? Yes, even as we should lav up a store of 


270 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


prayers against that time when we shall be unable to pray 
for ourselves, so surely should we lay up a store of habits 
against the time when we may be unable to think or rea- 
son for ourselves ! How often have lives been saved by 
the mere instinct of unquestioning, instantaneous obedi- 
ence! 

Had Frederick possessed that instinct, how much pres- 
ent suffering and future wretchedness might have been 
spared him! His ideas were as yet too disconnected 
for him to understand or bear in mind that he was sub- 
jecting his mother to excessive fatigue, but the habit of 
submission would have led him to bear hei’ absence 
patiently, instead of perpetually interrupting even the 
short repose which she would now and then be persuaded 
to seek on the sofa. He would have spared her his per- 
petual, harassing complaints— not so much of the pain he 
suffered, as of everything and every person who ap 
proached him, his Uncle Geoffrey being the only person 
against whom he never murmured. Nor would he have 
rebelled against measures to which he was obliged to sub- 
mit in the end, after he had distressed every one, and ex- 
hausted himself, by his fruitless opposition. 

It was marvelous that the only two pei’sons whose at- 
tendance he would endure could bear up under the fatigue. 
Even Uncle Geoffrey, one of these spare wiry men who, 
without much appearance of strength, are nevertheless 
capable of such continued exertion, was beginning to look 
worn and almost aged ; and yet Mrs. Frederick Langford 
was still indefatigable, unconscious of weariness, quietly 
active, absorbed in the thought of her son, and yet not so 
absorbed as not to be full of consideration for all around. 
All looked forward with apprehension to the time when 
the consequences of such continued exertion must be felt ; 
but in the meantime it was not in the power of any one ex- 
cept her brother Geoffrey to be of any assistance to her, 
and her relations could only wait and watch with such pa- 
tience as they could command, for the period when their 
services might be effectual. 

Mrs. Langford was the most visibly impatient. The 
hasty bustling of her very quietest steps gave such torture 
to Frederick, as to excuse the upbraiding eyes whiclv he 
turned on his poor perplexed mother, whenever she entered 
the room ; and h«3r fresh arrangements and orders alwa3"s 
created a disturbance, which did him such positive injur 3 ^ 
that it was the aim of the whole family to prevent her 
visits there. This was, as maj^ be supposed, no easj" task. 
Grandpapa’s “ You had better not, my dear,” checked her 
for a little while, but was far from satisfying her: Uncle 
Geoffrey, who, might have had the best chance, had not 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


271 


time to spare for her ; and no one could persuade her how 
impossible, nay, how dangerous it was to attempt to rea 
son with the patient ; so she blamed the whole household 
for indulging his fancies, and half a dozen times a day pro- 
nounced that he would be the death of his mother. Bea- 
trice did the best she could to tranquilize her; but two 
spirits so apt to clash did not accord particularly well even 
now, though Busy Bee was too much depressed to queen it 
as usual. To feel herself completely useless in the midst 
of the suffering she had occasioned was a severe trial ; and 
above all, poor child, she longed for her mother, and the 
repose of confession and parental sympathy. She saw her 
father only at meal- times; she was anxious and uneasy at 
his worn looks, and even he could not be all that her 
mother was. Grandpapa was kind as ever, but the fault 
that sat so heavy on her mind was not one for discussion 
with any one but a mother, and this consciousness was the 
cause or a little reserve with him, such as had never before 
existed between them. 

Alexander was more of a comfort to her than any one 
else, and that chiefly because he wanted her to be a com- 
fort to him. All the strong affection and esteem which he 
really entertained for Frederick was now manifested, and 
the remembrance of old rivalries and petty contention 
served but to make the reaction stronger. He kept aloof 
from his brothers, and spent^ every moment he could at 
the Hall, either reading in the library or walking up and 
down the garden paths with Queen Bee. One of the many 
conversations which they held will serve as a specimen of 
the rest. 

“ So they do not think he is much better to-day,” said 
Alex, walking into the library, where Beatrices was sealing 


some letters. 

Beatrice shook her head. “ Every day that he is not 
worse is so much gained,” she said. 

“It is very odd,” meditated Alex. “I suppose the 
more heads have in them the easier it is to knock them!” 

Beatrice smiled. “Thick skulls are proverbial, you 
know, Alex.” 

“Well, I really believe it is right. Look, Bee,” and he 
examined his own face in the glass over the chimney : 
“ there, do you see a little bit of a scar under my eyebrow? 
there! Well, that was where I was knocked over by a 
cricket-ball last half, pretty much harder than poor Fred 
could have come against the ground, but what harm did it 
do me? Why, everything spun round with me for five 
minutes or so, and I had a black eye enough to have 
scared you, but I was not a bit the worse otherwise. Poor 
P>ed, he was quite frightened for me, I believe; for the 


272 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


first thing I saw was him, looking all green and yellow, 
standing over me, and so I got up and laughed at him for 
thinking I could care about it. That was the worst of it ! 
I wish I had not been always set against him. I would 
give anything now.” 

“Well, but Alex, 1 don’t understand. You were very 
good friends at the bottom, after all; you can’t have any- 
thing really to repent of toward him.” 

“ Oh, haven’t I, though?” was the reply. ” It was more 
the other fellows’ doing than my own, to be sure, and yet, 
after all, it was worse, knowing all about him as I did; but 
somehow, every one, grandmamma and all of you, had 
been preaching up to me all my life that Cousin Fred was 
to be such a friend of mine. And then when he came to 
school, there he was— a fellow with a pink and white face, 
like a girl’s, and that did not even know how to shy a 
stone, and cried for his mamma! Well, I wish I could 
begin it all over again. ’ ’ 

“But do you mean that he was really a— a— what you 
call a Miss Molly?” 

“Who said so? No, not a bit of it!” said Alex. ‘‘No 
one thought so in reality, though it was a good joke to put 
him in a rage, and pretend to think he could not do any- 
thing. Why, it took a dozen times more spirit for him to 
be first in everything than for me, who had been knocked 
about all my life. And he was up to anything, Bee, to 
anything. The matches af football will be good for noth- 
ing now; I am sure I sha’n’t care if we do win.” 

“ And the prize,” said Beatrice, “ the scholarship!” 

“I have no heart to try for it now. I would not, if 
Uncle Geoffrey had not a right to expect it of me. Let me 
see: if Fred is well by the summer, why then— hurrah! 
Really, Queenie, he might get it all up in no time, clever 
fellow ^s he is, and be first after all. Don’t you think 
so?” 

Queen Bee shook her head. ‘‘ They say he must not read 
or study for a very long tim3,” said she. 

• ‘ Yes, but six months— a whole year, is an immense 
time,” said Alex. ” Oh, yes, he must. Bee. Reading does 
not cost him half the trouble it does other people ; and his 
verses, they never fail— never, except when he is careless ! 
and the sure way to prevent that is to run him up for time. 
That is right. Why, there!” exclaimed Alex, joyfully, “ I 
do believe this is the very best thing for his success!” 
Beatrice could not help laughing, and Alex immediately 
sobered down as the remembrance crossed him, that if 
Fred were living a week hence, they would have great 
reason to be thankful. 

‘ ‘ Ah ! they will all of tliem be sorry enough to hear of 


273 


HENRIETTA'^ WISH. 

this,” proceeded he. “ There was no one so much thought 
of by the fellows, or the masters either.” 

“The masters, perhaps,” said Beatrice; “but I thought 
you said there was a party against him among the boys?” 

“O, nonsense! It was only a set of stupid louts who, 
just because they had pudding-heads themselves, chose to 
say that I did better without all his reading and Italian, 
and music, and stuffs, and I was foolish enough to let them 
go on, though I knew all the time it was nothing but chaff. 
I shall let them all know what fools they were for their 
pains, as soon as I go back. Why, Queenie, you., who 
only know Fred at home, you have not the slightest no 
tion what a fellow he is. ITl just tell you one story of 
him.” 

Alexander forthwith proceeded to tell not one story 
alone, but many, to illustrate the numerous excellencies 
which he ascribed to Fred, and again and again blaming 
himself for the species of division which had existed be- 
tween them, although the fact was that he liad always 
been the most conciliatory of the two. Little did he guess, 
good, simple-hearted fellow, that each word was quite as 
much, or more, to his credit as to Frederick’s ; but Bea- 
trice well appreciated them, and felt proud of him. 

These talks were her chief comfort, and always served to 
refresh her, if only by giving her the feeling that some 
one wanted her, and not that the only thing she could do 
for anybody was the sealing of the letters which her father, 
whose eyes were supposed to be acquiring the powers of 
those of cats, contrived to wi-ite in the darkness of Fred ’s 
room. She thought she could have borne everything ex- 
cepting Henrietta’s coldness, which still continued, not 
from intentional unkindness or unwillingness to forgive, 
but simply because Henrietta was too much absorbed in 
her own troubles to realize to herself the feelings which 
she wounded. Her Uncle Geoffrey had succeeded by 
awakening her consideration for her mother, but with her 
and Fred it began and ended, and when outside the sick- 
room, she seemed not to have a thought beyond a speedy 
return to it. She seldom or never left it, except at meal 
times, or when her grandfather insisted on her taking a 
walk with him, as he did almost daily. Then he walked 
between her and Beatrice, trying in vain to arouse her to 
talk, and she, replying as shortlj^ as possible when obliged 
to speak, left her cousin to sustain the conversation. 

The two girls went to church with grandpapa on the 
feast of the Epiphan\\ and strange it was to them to see 
again the wreaths which their own hands had woven, look 
ing as bright and festal as ever, the glistening leaves un- 
faded, and the coral beriies looking fresh and gay. A tear 


274 


HENRf ETTA'S WISH. 


began to gather in Beatrice’s eye, and Henrietta hung her 
head, as ir she could not bear the sight of those branches, 
so lately gathered by her brother. As they were leaving 
the -church, both looked toward the altar at the wreath 
which Henrietta had once started to see, bearing a deeper 
and more awful meaning than she had designed. Their 
eyes met, and they saw that they had the same thought in 
their minds. 

When they were taking off their bonnets in their own 
room, Queen Bee stretched out a detaining hand, not in 
her usual commanding manner, but with a gesture that 
was almost timid, saying; 

‘ ‘ Look, Henrietta, one moment, and tell me if you were 
not thinking of this. ’ ’ 

And hastily opening the “Lyra Innocentium,” she 
pointed out the verse : 

“ Such garland grave and fair, 

His Church to-day adorns. 

And — mark it well — e’en there 
He wears his crown of thorns. 

“ Should aught profane draw near. 

Full many a guardian spear 
Is set around, of power to go 
Deep in the reckless hand, and stay the grasping foe.’’ 

“They go very deep,” sighed Henrietta, raising her 
eyes, with a mournful complaining glance. 

Beatrice would have said more, but when she recollected 
her own conduct on Christmas Eve, it might well strike her 
that she was the “thing profane ” that had then dared to 
draw near; and it pained her that she had even appeared 
for one moment to accuse her cousin. She was beginning 
to speak, but Henrietta cut her short by saying, “Yes, yeS, 
but I can’t stay,” and was flying along the passage the 
next moment. 

Beatrice sighed heavily, and spent the next quarter of an 
hour in recalling, with all the reality of self-reproach, the 
circumstances of her recklessness, vanity, and self-will on 
that day. She knelt and poured out her confession, her 
prayer for forgiveness, and grace to avoid the very germs 
of these sins for the future, before Him whoseeth in secret ; 
and a calm energetic spirit of hope, in the midst of true re- 
pentance, began to dawn upon her. 

It was good for her, but was it not selfish in Henrietta 
thus to leave her alone to bear her burden? Yes, selfish it 
was ; for Henrietta had heard the last report of Frederick 
since their return, and knew that her presence in his room 
was quite useless ; and it was only for the gratification of 
lier own feelings that she hurried thither, without even 


tiENRiETTA'S WISH. 

.^topping to recollect that her cousin might also be iinhappj^ 
and be comforted by talking to her. 

Her thought was only the repining one: “the thorns go 
deep!” Poor child, had they yet gone deep enough? The 
patient may cry out, but the skillful surgeon will never- 
theless probe on, till he has reached the source of the hid- 
den malady. 


CHAPTER XV. 

On a soft hazy day in the beginning of Februarj^ the 
Knight Sutton carriage was on the road to Allonfield, and 
in it sat the Busy Bee and her father, both of them speak- 
ing far less than was their wont when alone together. 

Mr. Geoffrey Langford took off his hat, so as to let the 
moist spring breeze play round his temples and in the thin 
locks where the silvery threads had lately grown more per- 
ceptible, and gazed upon the dewy grass, the tiny wood- 
bine leaf, the silver “pussycats” on the withy, and the 
tasseled catkin of the hazel, with the ej^es of a man to 
whom such sights were a refreshment, a sort of holidaj^— 
after the manj^ springs spent in close courts of law and 
London smoke , and now after his long attendance in the 
warm, dark sick-room. His daughter sat by him, think- 
ing deeply, and her heart full of a longing earnestness 
which seemed as if it would not let her speak. She was 
going to meet her mother, whom she had not seen for so 
long a time; but it was only to be for one evening! Her 
father, finding that his presence was absolutely required 
in London, and no longer actually indispensable at Knight 
Sutton, had resolved on changing places with his wife, and 
she was to go with him and take her mother’s place in at- 
tending on Lady Susan St. Leger. They were now going to 
fetch Mrs. Geoffrey Langford home from the Allonfield sta- 
tion, and they would have one evening at Knight Sutton 
with her, returning themselves the next morning to West- 
minster. 

They arrived at Allonfield, executed various commissions 
with which Mrs. Langford had been delighted to intrust 
Geoffrey; they ordered some new books for Frederick, and 
called at Philip Carey’s for some medicines; and then driv- 
ing up to the station, watched eagerly for the train. 

Soon it was there, and there at length she was; her own 
dear self— the dark aquiline face, with its sweetest and 
brightest of all expressions ; the small, youthful figure, so 
active, j^et so quiet and elegant, the dress so plain and 
simple, and yet with that distinguished air. How happy 
Beatrice was that first moment of feeling herself at her 
side! 


HENBIETTAS WISH. 


i}:H 


' ' My dear ! my own dear child !*' Then anxiously follow 
ing her husband with her eye, as he went to look for hef 
luggage, she said, ‘ ‘ How thin he looks, Queenie !” 

“ O, he has been doing so much, ' ’ said Busy Bee. ‘ ‘ It is 
only for this last week he has gone to bed at all, and then 
only on the sofa in Fred’s room. Thisds the first time he 
has been out, except last Sunday to church, and a turn or 
two round the garden with grandmamma. ” 

He came b ick before Queen Bee had done speaking. 

‘ ‘ Come, Beatrice, ' ' said he to his wife, ‘ ‘ I am m great 
haste to have you at home, that fresh face of yours will do 
us all so much good.” 

“One thing is certain,” said she; “I shall send home 
orders that you shall be allowed no strong coffee at night, 
and that Busy Bee shall hide half the mountain of letters 
in the study. But tell me honestly, Geoffrey, are you 
really well?” 

“Perfectly, except for a growing disposition to yawn,” 
said her husband, laughing. 

“Well, what are the last accounts of the patient?” 

“ He is doing very well; the last thing I did before com- 
ing away was to lay him down on the sofa, with Retzsch's 
outlines to look at ; so you may guess that he is getting on 
quickly. I suppose you have brought down the books and 
ju’intg?” 

‘ ‘ Such a pile that I almost expected my goods would be 
overweight.” 

“ It is very fortunate that he has a taste for this kind of 
things; only take care, they must not be at Henrietta’s 
discretion, or his own,' or he will be overwhelmed with 
them — a very little oversets him, and might do great mis- 
chief.” 

“ You don’t think the danger of inflammation over yet, 
then?” 

“Oh, no! His pulse is so very easily raised that we are 
obliged to keep him very quiet, and nearly to starve him, 
poor fellow ; and his appetite is returning so fast that it 
makes it very difficult to manage him.” 

“ ‘ I should be afraid that now would be the time to see 
the effects of poor Mary’s over- gentleness.” 

“Yes; but what greatly increases the difficulty is that 
Fred has some strange prejudice against Philip Carey.” 

Busy Bee, who had heard nothing of this, felt her cheeks 
flush, while her father proceeded: 

“I do not understand it at all. Philip’s manners in a 
sick-room are particularly good— much better than 1 
should have expected, and he has been very attentive aixl 
gentle-handed ; but, from the first, Fred has sliown a dis- 
like to him, questioned all his measures, and made the 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


277 


most of it whenever he was obliged to give him pain. 
The last time the London doctor wa& here I am sure he 
hurt Fred a great deal more than Philip has ever done, yet 
the boy bore it manfully, though he shrinks and exclaims 
the moment Philip touches him. Then he is always talking 
of wishing for old Clarke at Rocksand, and I give Mary infi- 
nite credit for never having proposed to send for him. I 
used to think she had great faith in the old man, but I be- 
lieve ic was only her mother.” 

“Of course it was. It is only when Mary has to act 
alone that you really are obliged to perceive all her excel- 
lent sense and firmness, and I am very glad that you 
should be convinced, now and then, that in nothing but 
her fears, poor thing, has she anything of the spoiling 
mamma about her.” 

“As if I did not know that,” said he, smiling. 

“And so she would not yield to this fancy? Very wise 
indeed. But I should like to know the reason of this dis- 
like on Fred’s part. Have you ever asked him?” 

“No; he is not in a fit state for argument; and, besides, 
I think the prejudice would only be strengthened. We 
have praised Philip again and again, before him, and said 
all we could think of to give him confidence in him, but 
nothing will do. In fact, I suspect Mr. Fred was sharp 
enough to discover that we were talking for a purpose. It 
has been the great trouble this whole time, though neither 
Mary nor I have mentioned it, for fear of annoying my 
mother.” 

“ Papa,” said Busy Bee, “ I am afraid I know the reason 
but too well. It was my foolish way of talking about the 
Careys; I used to tease poor Fred about Roger’s having 
taken him from Philip, and say all sorts of things that I 
did not really mean.” 

“Hem!” said her father. “Well, I should think it 
might be so; it alwaj-s struck me that the prejudice must 
be grounded upon some absurd notion, the memory of 
which had passed away, while the impression remained.” 

“ And do you think I could do anything toward remov 
ing it? You know I am to go and wish Fred ‘good-bye' 
this afternoon.” 

“Why, yes; you might as well try to say something 
cheerful, which might do away with the impression. Not 
that I think it will be of any use; only do not let him think 
it has been under discussion.” 

Beatrice assented, and was silent again while they went 
on talking. 

“And Mary has held out wonderfully!” said her 
mother. 

“Too wonderfully,” said Mi\ Geoffrey Langford, “in a 


278 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


way which I fear will cost her dearly. I have been posi- 
tively longing to see her give way as she ought to have 
done under the fatigue ; and now I am afraid of the old 
complaint. She puts her hand to her side now and then, 
and I am persuaded that she had some of those spasms a 
night or two ago. ” 

“Ah!’ said his wife, with great concern, “that is just 
what I have been dreading the whole time. When she 

consulted Dr. , how strongly he forbade her to use any 

kind of exertion. Why would you not let me come? I 
assure you it was all I could do to keep myself from set- 
ting off.” 

“It was very well behaved in you indeed, Beatrice,” 
said he, smiling; “a sacrifice which very few husbands 
would have had resolution either to make themselves or 
to ask of then- wives. I thanked you greatly when I did 
not see you.” 

“ But wdiy would you not have me? Do you not repent 
it now?” 

“ Not in the least. Fred would let no one come near him 
but his mother and me ; you could not have saved either of 
us an hour’s nursing then, whereas now you can keep Fred 
in order, and take care of Mary, if she will suffer it, and 
that she will do better from you than from any one else.” 

They were now reaching the entrance of Sutton Leigh 
Lane, and Queen Bee was called upon for the full history 
of the accident, which, often as it had been told by letter, 
must again be narrated in all its branches. Even her 
father had never had time to hear it completely ; and there 
was so much to ask and to answer on the merely external 
circumstances, that they had not begun to enter upon feel- 
ings and thoughts when they arrived at the gate of the pad- 
dock, which was held open by Dick and Willy, excessively 
delighted to see Aunt Geoffrey. 

In a few moments more she was affectionately welcomed 
by old Mrs. Langford, whose sentiments with regard to the 
two Beatrices were of a curiously varying and always op- 
posite description. When her daughter-in-law was at a 
distance, she secretly regarded with a kind of respectful 
aversion, both her talents, her learning, and the fashion- 
able life to which she had been accustomed; but in her 
presence, the v*^inning, lively simplicity of her manners 
completely dispelled all these prejudices in an instant, and 
she loved her most cordially for her own sake, as well as 
because she was Geoffrey’s wife. On the contrary, the 
younger Beatrice, while absent, was the dear little grand- 
daughter— the queen of bees, the cleverest of creatures ; 
and, while present, it has already been shown how con 
stanDy the two tempers fretted each other, or had once 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


m 


done so, though now, so careful had Busj^ Bee lately been, 
that there had been only one collision between them for the 
last ten days, and that was caused by her strenuous at- 
tempts to convince grandmamma that Fred was not yet fit 
for boiled chicken and calves’ foot jelly. 

Mrs. Langford’s greetings were not half over when Hen- 
rietta and her mamma hastened down-stairs to embrace 
dear Aunt Geoffrey. 

“ My dear Mary, I am so glad to come to you at last.” 

” Thank you, O ! thank you, Beatrice. How Fred will 
enjoy having you now !” 

“ Is he tired?” asked Uncle Geoffrey. 

” No, not at all ; he seems to be very comfortable. He 
has been talking of Queen Bee’s promised visit. Do you 
like to go up now, my dear?” 

Queen Bee consented eagerly, though with some trepida- 
tion, for she had not seen her cousin since his accident, and 
besides, she did not know how to begin about Philip Carey. 
She ran to take off her bonnet, while Henrietta went to 
announce her coming. She knocked at the door, Henrietta 
opened it, and coming in, she saw Fred lying on the sofa 
by the fire, in his dressing-gown, stretched out in that lan- 
guid, listless manner that betokens great feebleness. There 
’vs^ere the purple marks of leeches on his temples; his hair 
had been cropped close to his head ; his face was long and 
thin, without a shade of color, but his eyes looked large 
and bright; and he smiled and held out his hand; “Ah, 
Queeiiie, how d’ye do?” 

” How d’ye do, Fred? I am glad you are better.” 

“You see I have the asses’ ears after all,” said he, point- 
ing to his own, whicli were very prominent in his shorn 
and shaven condition. 

Beatrice could not very easily call up a smil(!, but she 
made an effort, and succeeded while she said, “I should 
have complimented you on the increased wisdom of your 
looks. I did not know the shape of your head was sp like 
papa’s.” 

“ Is Aunt Geoffrey come?” asked Fred. 

“Yes,” said his sister; “but mamma thinks you had 
better not see her till to-morrow.” 

‘ ‘ I wish Uncle Geoffrey was not going, ’ ’ said Fred. ‘ ‘ No- 
body else has the least notion of making one tolerably com- 
fortable.” 

“O, your mamma, Fred!” said (^een Bee. 

“ Oh, yes, mamma, of course! But then she is getting 
fagged!” 

“Mamma says she is quite unhappy to have kept him 
so long from his work in London,” said Henrietta; “ but 
I do not know what we should have done without him.” 


/ / KNniETTA'Si wmn. 


‘280 

“ I do not know what we shall do now,” said Fred, in a 
languid and doleful tone. 

The Queen Bee, thinking this is a capital opportunity, 
spoke with almost alarming eagerness, “Oh, yes, Fred, 
you Avill get on famously; you Avill enjoy having my 
mamma so much, and you are so much better already, and 
Philip Carey manages you so well ' ’ 

“Manages!” said Fred; “ay, and ITl tell you how, 
Queenie; just as the man managed his mare when he fed 
her on a straw a da3^ I believe he thinks I am a ghoul, 
and can live on a grain of rice. I only Avish he kneAv him- 
self av hat starA^ation is. Look here! you can almost see 
the fire through my hand, and if I do but lift up my head, 
the Avhole room is in a merry-go-round. And that is noth- 
ing but weakness; there is nothing else on eartli the mat- 
ter with me, except that I am starved doAvntothe strength 
of a midge!” 

“ Well, but of course he knoAvs,” said Busy Bee. “Papa 
says he has had an excellent education, and he must 
know.” 

“To be sure he does perfectly Avell; he is a sharp fel- 
low, and knows how to keep a patient Avhen he has got 
one.” 

“How can you talk such nonsense, Fred? One comfort 
is, that it is a sign you are getting well, or you Avould not 
have spirits to do it. ” 

“ I am talking no nonsense,” said Fred, sharply; “ I am 
as serious as possible. ’ ’ 

“But you can’t really think that if Philip Avas capable of 
acting in such an atrocious Avay, that papa would not find 
it out, and the other doctor too?” 

“What! Avhen this man gets I don’t know how man 3" 
guineas from mamma every time he comes, do you think 
that it is for his interest that I should get Avell.” 

“ My dear Fred, ” interposed his sister, “ 3 ou are excit- 
ing yourself, and that is so A^ery bad for 3'ou."” 

“ I do assure 3"OU, Henrietta, 3^ou would find it A^ery little 
exciting to be shut up in this room, Avith half a teaspoonful 
of wish3'-Avashy pudding tAvice a day, and all just to fill 
Mr. Philip Carey’s pockets! Noav, there Avas old Clarke at 
Rocksand, he had some feeling for one, poor old felloAv, but 
this man, not the slightest compunction has he ; and I am 
ready to kick him out of the room Avhen I hear that silk3" 
voice of his tiring to be gen-tee-eel, and condoling ; and 
those boots— -O! Husy Bee! those boots! whenever he 
makes a step T ahvays hear them sa3y ‘ O what a pretty fel- 
low I am!’ ” 

“You seem to be very merry here, 1113^ dears,” said Aunt 
Mary, coming in; “but I am afraid you av ill tire 3’our- 


mjNRIETTA^^^ WISH. • 281 

self, Freddy ; I heard your voice even before I opened the 
door. ’ ’ 

Fred was silent, a little ashamed, for he had sense enough 
not absolutely to believe all that he had been saying, and 
his mother, sitting down, began to talk to the visitor. 
“Well, my little queen, we have seen very little of you of 
late, but we shall be very sorry to lose you. 1 suppose your 
mamma will have all your letters, and Henrietta must not 
expect any, but we shall want very much to know how 
you get on with Aunt Susan and her little dog.” 

“O, very well, I dare say,” said Beatrice, rather ab- 
sently, for she was looking at her aunt’s delicate, fragile 
form, and thinking of what her father had been saying. 

“And Queenie,” continued her aunt, earnestly, “you 
must take great care of your papa — make him rest, and 
listen to your music, and read story-books instead of go- 
ing back to his work all the evening.” 

“ To be sure I shall. Aunt Mary, as much as I possibly 
can.” 

“But, Bee,” said Fred, “you don’t mean that you are 
going to be shut up with that horrid old Lady Susan all 
this time? Why don’t jmu staj" here, and let her take care 
of herself?” 

“Mamma would not like that; and besides, to do her 
justice, she is really ill, Fred,” said Beatrice. 

“ It is too bad, now I am just getting better— if they 
would let me, I mean,” said Fred; “just when [ could en- 
joy having you, and now there you go off to that old 
woman. It is a downright shame.” 

“ So it is, Fred,” said Queen Bee gayly, but not coquet- 
tishly, as once she would have answered him, “a great 
shame in you not to have learned to feel for other people, 
now you know what it is to be ill yourself.” 

“That is right. Bee,” said Aunt Mary, smiling; “ tell him 
he ought to be ashamed of having monopolized you all so 
long, and spoiled all the comfort of your household. I am 
sure I am,” added she, her eyes filling with tears, as she 
affectionatel}^ patted Beatrice’s hand. 

Queen Bee’s heart was very full, but she knew that to 
give way to the expression of her feelings would be hurtful 
to Fred, and she only pressed her aunt’s long thin fingers 
very earnestly, and turned her face to the fire, while she 
struggled down the rising emotion. There was a little 
silence, and when they began to talk again, it Avas of the 
engravings at which Fred had just been looking. The visit 
lasted till the dressing-bell rang, Avhen Beatrice was obliged 
to go, and she shook hands with Fred, saying cheerfully, 
“Well, good-bye. I hope you will be better friends with 
the doctors next time I see you.” 


‘ HENRIETTA'S WISH 




“ Never will I like one inoli of a doctor, never!” repeated 
Fred, as she left the room and ran to snatch what moments 
she could with her mamma in the space allowed for dress- 

grandmamma was happy that evening, for, except poor 
Frederick’s own place, there were no melancholy gaps at 
the dinner-table. He had Bennet to sit with him, and be- 
sides, there was within call the confidential old man-serv- 
ant who had lived so many years at Rocksand, and in, 
whom both Fred and his mother placed considerable de- 
pendence. 

Everything looked like recovery ; Mrs. Frederick Lang 
ford came down and talked and smiled like her own sweet 
self; Mrs. Geoffrey Langford was ready to hear all the 
news, old Mr. Langford was quite in spirits again. Henri- 
etta was bright and lively. The thought of long days in 
London with Lady Susan, and of long evenings with no 
mamma, and with papa either writing or at his chambers, 
began from force of contrast to seem doubly like banish- 
ment to poor litte Queen Bee, but whatever faults she had, 
she was no lepiner. ‘ ‘ I deserve it, ” said she to herself, 

” and surely I ought to bear my share of the trouble my 
willfulness has occasioned. Besides, with even one little 
bit of papa’s company I am only too well off.” 

So she smiled, and answered grandpapa in his favorite 
style, so that no one would have guessed from her demeanor 
that a task had been imposed upon her which she so much 
disliked, and in truth her thoughts were much more on 
others than on herself. She saw all hopeful and happy 
about Fred, and as to her aunt, when she saw her as usual 
with all her playful gentleness, she could not think that 
there was anything seriously amiss with her, or if there 
was, mamma would find it out and set it all to rights. 
Then how soothing and comforting, now that the first 
acute pain of remorse was over, was that affectionate kind- 
ness, which, in every little gesture and word. Aunt Mary 
had redoubled to her ever since the accident. 

Fred was all this time lying on his sofa, very glad to rest 
aft(T so much talking; weak, dizzy, and languid, and 
throwing all the blame of his uncomfortable sensations on 
Philip Carey and the starvation system, but still, perhaps, 
not without thoughts of a less discontented nature, for 
when Mr. Geoffrey Langford came to help him to bed, he 
said, as he watched the various arrangements his uncle 
was for the last time sedulously making for his comfort, 
“Uncle Geoffrey, I ought to thank you very much; I am 
afraid I have been a great plague to you.” 

Perhaps Fred did not say this in all sincerity, for any 
one but Uncle Geoffrey would have completely disowned 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


2S3 


the plaguing, and he fully expected him to do so; but his 
uncle had a stern regard for truth, coupled with a courtesy 
which left it no more harshness than was salutary. 

“Anything for your good, my dear sir,” said he, with a 
smile. “You are welcome to plague me as much as you 
like, only remember that your mamma is not quite so 
tough.” 

“ Well, I do try to be considerate about her,” said Fred. 
“I mean to make her rest as much as possible; Henrietta 
and I have been settling how to save her.” 

“You could save her more than all, Fred, if you would 
spare her discussions. ’ ’ 

Fred held his tongue, for though his memory was rather 
cloudy about the early part of his illness, he did remember 
having seen her look greatly harassed one day lately when 
he had been arguing against Philip Carey. 

Uncle Geoffrey proceeded to gather up some of the out- 
lines which Henrietta had left on the sofa. “ I like those 
very much,” said Fred, “especially the ‘Fight with the 
Dragon.’ ” 

“You know Schiller’s poem on it?” said Uncle Geoffrey. 

“ Yes, Henrietta has it in German.” 

“ Well, it is what I should especially recommend to your 
consideration.” 

“ I am afraid it will be long enough before I am able to 
go out on a dragon-killing expedition,” said Fred, with a 
weary helpless sigh. 

“ Fight the dragon at home, then, Freddy. Now is the 
time for — 

“ ‘ The duty, hardest to fulfill, 

To learn to yield our own self-will.’ ” 

“ There is very little hasty pudding in the case,” said 
Fred, rather disconsolately, and at the same time rather 
drolly, and with a sort of resolution of this kind, “ I will 
try then, will not bother mamma, let that Carey serve me 
as he may. I will not make a fuss, if T can help it, unless 
he is very unreasonable indeed, and when I get well I will 
submit to be coddled in an exemplary manner ; I only won- 
der when I shall feel up to anything again ! Oh ! what a 
nuisance it is to have this swimming head and aching 
knees, all by the fault of that Carey!” 

Uncle Geoffrey said no more, for he thought a hint often 
was more useful than a lecture, even if Fred had been in a 
state for the latter ; and besides, he was in greater request 
than ever on this last evening, so much so that it seemed 
as if no one was going to spare him even to have half an 
hour’s talk with his wife. He did find the time for this at 
last, however, and his first question was, “What do you 
t hink of the little Bee?” 


284 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


“I think with great hope, much more satisfactorily 
than I have been able to do for some time past, ’ ’ was the 
answer. 

“Poor child, she has felt it very deeply,” said he; “I 
have been grieved to have so little time to bestow on 
her.” 

“I am disposed to think,” said Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, 
thoughtfully, “that it was the best thing for her to be 
thrown on herself. “Too much talk has always been the 
mischief with her, as with many another only child, and it 
struck me to-day as a very good sign that she said so little. 
There was something very touching in the complete ab- 
sence of moralizing to-day.” 

“ None of her sensible sayings,” said her father with a 
gratified though a grave smile. “ It was perfectly open 
confession, and yet with no self in it. Ever since the acci- 
dent there has been a staidness and sedateness about her 
manner which seemed like great improvement, as far as I 
have seen. And when it was proposed for her to go to 
Lady Susan, I was much pleased with her, she was so 
simple: ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I hope I shall be able to 
make her comfortable;’ no begging off, no heroism. And 
really, Beatrice, don’t you think we could make some other 
arrangement? It is too great a penance for her, poor 
child ; Lady Susan will do very well, and I can have an eye 
to her, I am much inclined to leave the poor little Queen 
here with you.” 

“ No, no, Geoffrey,” said his wife. “ that M’ould never do. 
I do not mean on my aunt’s account, but on the Busy Bee’s; 
I am sure, wish it as we may,” and the tears were in her 
eyes, “ this is no time for even the semblance of neglecting 
a duty for her sake. ” 

“ Not so much hers as yours,” said Mr. Geoffrey Lang- 
ford; “ you have more on your hands than I like to leave 
you alone to encounter, and she is a valuable little assist- 
ant. Besides, you have been without her so long, it is your 
turn to keep her now.” 

“No, no, no,” she repeated, though not without an ef- 
fort, “ it is best as it is settled for all, and decidedly so for 
me, for with her to write to me about you qvqvj day, and 
to look after you, I shall be a hundred times more at ease 
than if I thought you were working yourself to death with 
no one to remonstrate. ” 

So it remained as before decided, and the pain that the 
decision cost both mother and daughter was only to be in- 
ferred by the way in which they kept close together, as if 
determined not to lose unnecessarily one fragment of each 
other’s company; but they had very few moments alone 
together and those were chiefly employed in practi(5al mat- 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


285 


in minute directions as to the little things that con- 
duced to keep Lady Susan in good humor, and above all, 
the arrangements for papa’s comfort. Tliere was thus not 
muon time for Beatrice to spend with Henrietta, nor in- 
deed would much have resulted if there had been more. 
As she grew more at ease about her brother, Henrietta had 
gradually resumed her usual manner, and was now as af- 
fectionate to Beatrice as ever, but she was quite uncon- 
scious of her previous unkindness, and therefore made no 
attempt to atone for it. Queen Bee had ceased to think of 
it, and if a reserve had grown up between the two girls, 
they neither of them perceived it. 

Mr. Geoffrey Langford and his daughter set out on their 
return to London so early the next morning that hardly 
any of the family were up ; but their hurried breakfast in 
the gray of morning was enlivened by Alex, who came in 
just in time to exchange some last words with Uncle Geof- 
frey about his school work, and to wish Queen Bee good- 
bye, with hopes of a merrier meeting next summer. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Mrs. Geoffrey liANGFORD had from the first felt consid- 
erable anxiety for her sister-in-law, who, though cheerful 
as ever, began at length to allow that she felt worn out, 
and consented to spare herself more than she had hitherto 
done. The mischief was, however, not to be averted, and 
after a few days of increasing languor, she was attacked by 
a severe fit of the spasms, to which she had for several 
years been subject at intervals, and was obliged to confine 
herself entirely to her own I’oom, relying with complete 
confidence on her sister for the attendance on her son. 

It was to her, however, that Mrs. Geoffrey Langford 
wished most to devote herself; viewing her case with more 
uneasiness than that of Frederick, who was decid»^d]y on the 
fair road to convalescence; and she only gave him as inucli 
time as was necessary to satisfy his mother, and to super- 
intend the regulation of his room. He had all the society he 
wanted in his sister, who was always with him, and in 
grandpapa and grandmamma, whose short and freqinmt 
visits he began greatly to enjoy. He had also been jnore 
amenable to authority of late, partly in consequence of his 
uncle’s warning, partly because it was not quite so easy to 
torment an aunt as a mother, and partly too because, ex- 
cepting always the starving system, he had nothing in par- 
ticular of which to complain. His mother’s illness might 
also have its effect in subduing him; but it did not dwell 
much upon his spirits, or Henrietta’s, as they were toq 


286 HENRIETTA'S WISH, 

much a<JCUStomed to her ill health to be easily alarmed on 
her account. 

It was the last day of the holidays, and Alexander was 
to come late in the afternoon— Fred’s best time in the day 
— to take his leave. All the morning Fred was rather out 
of spirits, and talked to Henrietta a great deal about his 
school life. It might have been a melancholy day if he 
had been going back to school, but it was more sad to be 
obliged to stay away from the world where he had hitherto 
been measuring his powers, and finding his most exciting 
interests. It was very mortifying to be thus laid helplessly 
aside; a mere nobody, instead of an important and leading 
member of a community; at such an age, too, that it was 
probable that he would never return there again. 

He began to describe to Henrietta all the scenes where 
he would be missing, but not missed; the old cathedral 
town, with its nest of trees, and the chalky hills; the quiet 
river creeping through the meadows; the “ beech-crowned 
steep,” girdled in with the “ hollow trench that the Danish 
pirate made;” the old collegiate courts, the painted win- 
dows of the chapel, the surpliced scholars — even the very 
shops in the street had their part in his description ; and 
then falling into silence he sighed at the thought that there 
he would be known no more— all would go on as usual, and 
after a few passing inquiries and expressions of compassion, 
he would be forgotten ; his rivals would pass him in the 
race of distinction;' his schoolboy career be at an end. 

His reflections were interrupted by Mrs. Langford’s en- 
trance with Aunt Geoffrey, bringing a message of invita- 
tion from grandpapa to Henrietta, to walk with him to 
Sutton Leigh. She went; and Aunt Geoffrey, after put- 
ting a book within Fred’s reach, and seeing tnat he and 
grandmamma were quite willing to be companionable, 
again returned to his mother. 

Mrs. Langford thought him low and depressed, and 
began talking about his health and the present mode of 
treatment— a subject on which they were perfectly agreed; 
one being as much inclined to bestow a good diet as the 
other could be to receive it. 

If his head w^as still often painfully dizzy and confused ; 
if his eyes dazzled when he attempted to read for a long 
time together; if he could not stand or walk across the 
room without excessive giddiness — what was that but the 
effect of want of nourishment? “ If there was a craving, 
that was a sure sign that the thing was wholesome.” So 
she said, and her grandson assented with his whole heart. 

In a few minutes she left the room, and presently re- 
turned with a most tempting looking glass of clear amber- 
colored jelly, 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 28'? 

“Oh, grandmamma!” said Fred, doubtfully, though his 
eyes positively lighted up at the sight. 

“ Yes, my dear, I had it made for your mamma, and she 
^ys it is very good. It is as clear as possible, and quite 
innocent; I am sure it must do you good.” 

“ Thank you! Oh, thank you! It does look very nice,” 
said Fred, gazing on it with wistful eyes, “but really I do 
not think I ought.” 

“If it was to do you any harm, I am sure I would not 
think of such a thing,” said Mrs. Langford. “ But I have 
lived a good many more years in the world than these 
young people, and I never saw any good come of ail this 
keeping low. There was old Mr. Hilton, now, that attended 
all the neighborhood when I was a girl ; he kept you low 
enough while the fever was on you, but as soon as it w^as 
gone, why then reinvigorate the system— that was what he 
used to say.” 

“Just like old Clarke, of Rocksand!” sighed Fred. “I 
know my sister would like nothing better than to be rein- 
vigorated with that splendid stuff ; but you know it would 
put them all in a dreadful state if they knew it.” 

“Never mind,” said grandmamma; “ ’tis all my doing, 
you know. Come, to oblige me, taste it, my dear.” 

“ One spoonful,” said Fred — “to oblige grandmamma, ” 
added he, to himself ; and he let grandmamma lift him up 
on the cushions as far as he could bear to have his head 
raised. He took the spoonful, then started a little— 
“There is wine in it!” said he. 

“ A very little— just enough to give it flavor; it cannot 
make any difference. Do you like it, my dear?” as the 
spoon scooped out another transparent rock. “Ay, that 
is right! I had the receipt from my old aunt Kitty, and 
nobody ever could make it like Judith.” 

“ I am in for it now,” thought Fred. “ Well, ’tis excel- 
lent,” said he; “capital stuff! I feel it all down to my 
fingers’ ends,” added he, with a smile, as he returned the 
glass, after fishing in vain for the particles remaining in 
the small end. 

“That is right; I am so glad to see you enjoy it!” 
said grandmamma, hurrying off with the empty glass with 
speed, at which Fred smiled, as it implied some fears of 
meeting Aunt Geoffrey. He knew the nature of his own 
case sufficiently to be aware that he had acted very impru 
dently — that is to say, his better sense was aware — but his 
spirit of self-will made him consider all these precautions 
as nonsense, and was greatly confirmed by his feeling him- 
self much more fresh and lively. Grandmamma returned 
to announce Alexander and Willy, who soon followed her, 
and after shaking hands, stood silent, much shocked at 


m 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


the alteration in Fred's appearance. This impression, 
however, soon passed ol¥, as Fred began to talk over school 
affairs in a very animated manner; sending messages to 
his friends, discussing the interests of the coming half 
year, the games, the studies, the employments; Alex la 
menting Fred’s absence, engaging to write, undertaking 
numerous commissions, and “even prognosticating his speedy 
recovery, and attainment of that cynosure— the prize. 
Never had the two cousins met so cordially, or so enjoyed 
their meeting. There was no competition ; each could af- 
ford to do the other justice, and both felt great satisfaction 
in doing so; and so high and even so loud became their 
glee, that Alex could scarcely believe that Fred was not in 
perfect health. At last Aunt Geoffrey came to put an end 
to it; and finding Fred so much excited, she made Alex 
bring his blunt honest farewells and good wishes to a 
speedy conclusion, desired Fred to lie quiet and rest, and 
sat down herself to see that he did so. 

Fred could not easily be brought to repose ; he went on 
talking fast and eagerly in praise of Alex, and in spite of 
her complete assent, he went on more and more vehe- 
mently, just as if he was defending Alex from some one 
who wanted to detract from his merits. She tried reading 
to him, but he grew too eager about the book; and at last 
she rather advanced the time for dressing for dinner, both 
for herself and Henrietta, and sent Bennet to sit with him, 
hoping thus perforce to reduce him to a quiescent state. 
He was by this means a little calmed for the rest of the 
evening; but so wakeful and restless a night ensued, that 
he began to be alarmed, and fully came to the conclusion 
that Philip Carey was in the right after all. Toward 
morning, however, a short sleep visited him, and he awoke 
at length quite sufficiently refreshed to be self-willed as 
ever; and, contrary to advice, insisted on leaving his bed 
at his usual hour. 

Philip Carey came at about twelve o’clock, and was dis 
appointed as well as surprised to find him so much more 
languid and uncomfortable, as he could not help allowing 
that he felt. His pulse, too, was unsatisfactory ; but Philip 
thought the excitement of the interview with Alex well ac- 
counted for the sleepless night, as well as for the ex- 
haustion of the present day; and Fred persuaded himself 
to believe so too. 

Henrietta did not like to leave him to-day, but she was 
engaged to take a ride with grandpapa, who felt as if the 
little Mary of years long gone by was restored to him, 
when he had acquired a riding companion in his grand 
daughter. Mrs. Langford undertook to sit with Fred, and 
Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, who had been at first afraid that 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


289 


she would be too bustling a nurse for him just now, seeing 
that he was evidently impatient to be left alone with her, 
returned to Mrs. Frederick Langford, resolving, however, 
not to be long absent. 

In that interval Mrs. Langford brought in the inviting 
glass, and Fred, in spite of his good sense, could not resist 
it. Perhaps the recent irritation of Pnilip’s last visit made 
him more willing to act in opposition to his orders. At any 
rate, he thought of little save of swallowing it before Aunt 
Geoffrey should catch him in the act, in which he suc- 
ceeded ; so that grandmamma had time to get the tell-tale 
glass safely into the store-closet just as Mrs. Frederick 
Langford’s door was opened at the other end of the passage. 

Fred’s sofa cushions were all too soft or too hard that 
afternoon— too high or too low ; there was a great mount - 
ain in the middle of the sofa, too, so that he could not lie 
on it comfortably. The room was chilly though the fire 
was hot, and how grandmamma did poke it ! Fi’ed thought 
she did nothing else the whole afternoon ; and there was a 
certain concluding shovel that she gave to the cinders, 
that very nearly put him in a passion. Nothing would 
make him comfortable till Henrietta came in, and it 
seemed very long before he heard the paddock gate, and 
the horses’ feet upon the gravel. Then he grew very much 
provoked because his sister went first to her mamma’s 
room ; and it was grandpapa who came to him full of a 
story of Henrietta’s good management of her horse when 
they suddenly met the hounds in a narrow lane. In she 
came at last, in her habit, her hair hanging loosely round 
her face, her cheeks and eyes lighted up by the exercise, 
and some early primroses in her hand, begging his pardon 
for having kept him waiting, but saying she thought he did 
not want her directly, as he had grandpapa. 

Nevertheless, he scolded her, ordered her specimens of 
the promise of spring out of the room on an accusation of 
their possessing a strong scent, made her make a complete 
revolution on his sofa, and then insisted on her going on 
with Nicolo de Lapi, which she was translating to him from 
the Italian. Warm as the room felt to her in her habit, 
she sat down directly, without going to take it off ; but he 
was not to be thus satisfied. He found fault with her for 
hesitating in her translation, and desired her to read the 
Italian instead ; . then she read first so fast that he could 
not follow, and then so slowly that it was quite unbear 
able, and she must go on translating. With the greatest 
patience and sweetest temper she obeyed ; only when next 
he interrupted her to find fault, she stopped, and said 
gently, “Dear Fred, I am afraid you are not feeling so 
well.” 


290 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


“Nonsense! What should make you think so? You 
think I am cross, I suppose. Well, never mind, I will go 
on for myself,” said he, snatching the book. 

Henrietta turned away to hide her tears, for she was too 
wise to vindicate herself. 

‘ ‘ Are you crying? I am sure I said nothing to cry about ; 
I wish you would not be so silly.” 

“ If you would only let me go on, dear Fred,” said she, 
thinking that occupying him would be better than argu- 
ing. “It is so dark where you are, and I will try to get 
on better. There is an easier piece coming.” 

Fred agreed, and she went on without interruption for some 
little time, till at last he grew so excited by the story as to 
be very angry when the failing light obliged her to pause. 
She tried to extract some light from the fire, but this was 
a worse offense than any ; it was too bad of her, when she 
knew how he hated both the sound of poking, and that 
horrible red flickering light which always hurt his eyes. 
This dislike, which had been one of the symptons of the 
early part of his illness, so alarmed her that she had thoughts 
of going to call Aunt Geoffrey, and was heartily glad to see 
her enter the room. 

“Well, how are you going on?” said she, cheerfully. 
“ Why, my dear, how hot you must be in that habit!” 

“ Rather,” said poor Henrietta, whose face between the 
heat and her perplexity, was almost crimson. “We 
have been reading ‘Nicolo,’ and I am very much afraid 
it is as bad as Alex’s visit, and has excited Fred again. ’ ’ 

“I am quite sick of hearing that word excitement!” 
said Fred, impatiently. 

“ Almost as tired as of having your pulse felt,” said Aunt 
Geoffrey. “ But yet I must ask you to submit to that dis- 
agreeable necessity.” 

Fred moved pettishly, but as he could not refuse, he only 
told Henrietta that he could not bear any one to look at 
him while his pulse was felt. 

“Will you fetch me a candle, my dear?” said Aunt 
Geoffrey, amazed as well as terrified by the fearful rapid- 
ity of the throbs and trying to acquire sufficient com- 
posure to count them calmly. The light came, and still 
she held his wrist, beginning her reckoning again and 
again, in the hope that it was only some momentary agita- 
tion that had so quickened them. 

“What! ’tis faster?” asked Fred, speaking in a hasty, 
alarmed tone, when she released him at last. 

“You are flushed, Fred,” she answered, very quietly, 
though she felt full of consternation. “Yes, faster than 
it ought to be; I think you had better not sit up any 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


291 


longer this evening, or you will sleep no better than last 
night.” 

” Very well,” said Fred. 

‘‘Then I will ring for Stephens,” said she. 

The first thing she did on leaving his room was to go to 
her own, and there write a note to young Mr. Carey, giv- 
ing an account of the symptoms that had caused her so 
much alarm. As she wrote them down without exaggera- 
tion, and trying to give each its just weight, going back to 
recollect the first unfavorable sign, she suddenly remem- 
bered that as she left her sister’s room, she had seen 
Mrs. Langford, whom she had left with Fred, at the door 
of the store-closet. Could she have been giving liim any 
of her favorite nourishing things? Mrs. Geoffrey Lang- 
ford could hardly believe that either party could have 
acted so foolishly, yet when she remembered a few words 
that had passed about the jelly that morning at breakfast, 
she could no longer doubt, and bitterly reproached herself 
for not having kept up a stricter surveillance. Of her sus- 
picion she, however, said nothing, but sealing her note, she 
went down to the drawing-room, told Mr. Langford that 
she did not think Fred quite so well that evening, and 
asked him if he did not think it might be better to let 
Philip Carey know. He agreed instantly, and rang the 
bell to order a servant to ride to Allonfield ; but Mrs. Lang- 
ford, who could not bear any one but Geoffrey to act with- 
out consulting her, pitied the man and horse for being sent 
out so late, and opined that Beatrice forgot that she was 
not in London, where the medical man could be called in 
so easily. 

It was fortunate that it was the elder Beatrice instead of 
the younger, for provoked as she already had been before 
with the old lady, it was not easy even for her to make a 
cheerful answer. ‘‘ Well, it is very kind in you to attend 
to my London fancies,” said she; ” I think if we can do 
anything to si)are him such a night as the last, it should be 
tried. ’ ’ 

” Certainly, certainly,” said Mr. Langford. “ It is very 
disappointing when he was going on so well. He must 
surely have been doing something imprudent.” 

It was very tempting to interrogate Mrs. Langford, but 
her daughter-in-law had long since come to a resolution 
never to convey to her anything like reproach, let her do 
what she might in her mistaken kindness of heart, or her 
respectable prejudices; so, without entering on what many 
in her place might have made a scene of polite recrimina 
tion, she left the room, and on her way up heard Frederick’s 
door gently opened. Stephens came quickly and softly to 
the end of the passage to meet her. ” He is asking for you, 


392 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


ma’am,” said he; ‘‘I am afraid he is not so well; I did not 
like to ring, for fear of alarming my mistress, but ” 

Mrs. Geoffrey Langford entered the room, and found 
that the bustle and exertion of being carried to his bed had 
brought on excessive confusion and violent pain. He put 
his hand to his forehead, opened his eyes, and looked 
wildly about him. “Oh, Aunt Geoffrey ,” he exclaimed, 
“what shall I do? It is as bad— Avorse than ever!” 

“YouhaA^e been doing something imprudent, I fear,” 
said Aunt Geoffrey, determined to come to the truth at 
once. 

“ Only that glass of jelly— if I had guessed!” 

“Only one?” 

“One to-day, one yesterday. It was grandmamma’s 
doing. Don’t let her know that I told. I wish mamma 
was here!” 

Aunt Geoffrey tried to relieve the pain by cold applica- 
tions, but could not succeed, and Fred grew more and more 
alarmed. 

“The inflammation is coming back!” he cried, in an 
agony of apprehension that almost' overcame' the sense of 
pain. ‘ ‘ I shall be in danger — I shall lose my senses— I shall 
die ! Mamma ! Oh ! where is mamma?’ ’ 

“ Lie still my dear Fred,” said Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, 
laying her hand on him so as to restrain his struggling 
moA^ements to turn round or to sit up. “ Resistance and 
agitation Avill hurt you more than anything else. You 
must control yourself, and trust to me, and you may be 
sure I will do the best in my power for you. The rest is in 
the hands of God.” 

“Then you think me very ill?” said Fred, trying to speak 
more composedly. 

“ I think you Avill certainly make youi*self very ill, un- 
less you will keep yourself quiet, both mind and body. 

There ” she settled him as comfortably as she could; 

‘ ‘ Now I am going away for a few minutes. Make a resolu- 
tion not to stir till I come back. Stephens is here, and I 
shall soon come back. ” 

This was very unlike the way in which his mother used 
to beseech him as a favor to spare her, and yet his aunt’s 
tone Avas so affectionate as Avell as so authoritative, that he 
could not feel it unkind. She left the room, and as sooii 
as she found herself alone in the passage, leaned against the 
wall and trembled, for she felt herself for a moment 
quite over Av helmed, and longed earnestly for her husband 
to think for her, or even for one short interval in which to 
reflect. For this, hoAvever, there Avas no time, and with 
one earnest mental supplication, summoning up her ener- 
gies, she Avalked on to the person whom she at that mo- 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


293 


ment most dreaded to see, her sister- in- 2aw. She found 
her sitting in her arm chair, Henrietta with her, both 
looking very anxious, and she was glad to find her pre- 
pared. 

“ What is it?’' was the first eager question. 

“ He has been attempting rather too much of late,” was 
the answer, “ and has knocked himself up. I came to tell 
you because T think I had better stay with him, and per- 
haps you might miss me. ” 

“Oh no, no, pray go to him. Nothing satisfies me so 
well about him as that you should be there, except that I 
cannot bear to give you so much trouble. Don’t stay here, 
answering questions. He will be so restless if he misses 
you ’ ’ 

“Don’t you sit imagining, Mary; let Henrietta read to 
you.” 

This proposal made Henrietta look so piteous and wistful, 
that her mother said, “ No, no, let her go to Freddy, poor 
child; I dare say he wants her.” 

“ By no means,” said Aunt Geoffrey, opening the door; 
“ he will be quieter without her.” 

Henrietta was annoyed, and walked about the room, in- 
stead of sitting down to read. She was too fond of her 
own will to like being thus checked, and she thought she 
had quite as good a right to be with her brother as her 
aunt could have. Every temper has one side or other on 
which it is susceptible; and this was hers. She thought it 
affection for her brother, whereas it was impatience of 
being ordered.” 

Her mother forced herself to speak cheerfully. ‘ ‘ Aunt 
Geoffrey is a capital nurse,” said she; “ there is something 
so decided about her, that it always does one good. It 
saves all the trouble and perplexity of thinking for one’s 
self.” 

“ I had rather judge for myself,” said Henrietta. 

“That is all very well to talk of,” said her mother, 
smiling sadly, ‘ ‘ but it is a very different thing when you 
are obliged to do it.” 

“Well, what do you like to hear?” said Henrietta, who 
found herself too cross for conversation: “ ‘ The Old Man’s 
Home?’ ” 

“ Do not read unless you like it, my dear; I think you 
must be tired. You would want ‘ lungs of brass ’ to go on 
all day to both of us. You had better not. I should like 
to talk.” 

Henrietta, being in a willful fit, chose nevertheless to 
read, because it gave her the satisfaction of feeling that 
Aunt Geoffrey was inflicting a hardship upon her ; although 
her mother would decidedly have preferred conversation. 


S04 


HENBIETTA^S WISH. 


So she took up a book, and began, without any perception 
of the sense of what she was reading, but her thoughts 
dwelling parjtly on her brother, and partly on her aunt’s 
provoking ways. She read on through a whole chapter, 
then closing the book hastily, exclaimed, “ I must go and 
see what Aunt Geoffrey is doing with Fred.” 

“She is not such a very dangerous person,” said Mrs. 
Frederick Langford, almost laughing at the form of the ex- 
pression. 

“Well, but you surely want to know how he is, 
mamma?” 

“ To be sure I do, but I am so afraid of his being disturbed. 
If he was just going to sleep now.” 

“ Yes, but you know how softly I can open the door.” 

“ Your aunt would let us know if there was anything to 
hear. Pray, take care, my dear.” 

“I must go, I can’t bear it any longer; I will only just 
listen,” said Henrietta; “ I will not be a moment.” 

“ Let me have the book, my dear,” said her mother, who 
knew but too well the length of Henrietta’s moments, and 
who had just, by means of a great effort, succeeded in 
making herself take interest in the book. 

Henrietta gave it to her, and darted off. The door of 
Fred’s room was ajar, and she entered. Aunt Geoffrey, 
Bennet, and Judith were standing round the bed, her aunt 
sponging away the blood that was flowing from Frederick’s 
temples. His eyes were closed, and he now and then gave 
long, gasping sighs of oppression and faintness. ‘ ‘ Leeches !’ ’ 
thouglit Henrietta, as she started with consternation and 
displeasure. “This is pretty strong! Without telling me 
or mamma! Well, this is what I call doing something with 
him indeed.” 

She ad vanced to the table, but no one saw her for more 
than a minute, till at last Aunt Geoffrey stepped quickly 
up to it in search of some bottle. 

“ Let me do something,” said Henrietta, catching up the 
bottle that she thought likely to be the right one. 

Her aunt looked vexed, and answered in a low, quick 
tone, “You had better stay with your mamma.” 

“But why are you doing this? Is he worse? Is Mr. 
Philip Carey here? Has he ordered it?” 

“He is not come yet. My dear, I cannot talk to you ; I 
should be much obliged if you would go back to your 
mamma.” 

Aunt Geoffrey went back to Fred, but a few minutes 
after she looked up and still saw Henrietta standing by the 
table. She came up to her. ‘ ‘ Henrietta, you are of no 
use here; every additional person oppresses him; your 
jnamma must be kept tranquil. Why will you stay?” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


295 


“I was just going,” said Henrietta, taking this hurry- 
ing as an additional offense, and walking off in a dignified 
way. 

It was hard to say what had affronted her most, the pro- 
ceeding itself, the neglect, or the commands which Aunt 
Geoffrey had presumed to lay upon her, and away she 
went to her mamma, a great deal too much displeased, 
and too distrustful to pay the smallest attention to any 
precautions which her aunt might have tri^d to impress 
upon her. 

“ WeU?” asked her mother, anxiously. 

‘ ‘ She would not let me stay, ’ ’ ans were d Henrietta. ‘ ‘ She 
has been putting on leeches.” 

“ Leeches !” exclaimed her mother. “ He must be much 
worse. Poor fellow! Is Mr. Carey here?” 

“No; that is the odd thing.” 

“ Has he not been sent for?” 

“ I am sure I don’t know. Aunt Geoffrey seems to like 
to do things in her own way.” 

“It must be very bad indeed if she cannot venture to 
wait for him,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, much 
alarmed. 

“ And never to tell you!” said Henrietta. 

“ Oh, that was her consideration. She knew how fool- 
ishly anxious I should be. I have no doubt that she is 
doing right. Hom' did he seem to bQ?’’ 

“ Very faint, I thought,” said Henrietta; “there seemed 
to be a great deal of bleeding, but Aunt Geoffrey would 
not let me come near.” 

“She knows exactly what to do,” said Mrs. Frederick 
Langford. “ How well it was that she should be here.” 

Henrietta began to be so fretted ^t her mother’s com- 
plete confidence in her aunt, that without thinking of the 
consequences she tried to argue it away. “ Aunt Geoffrey 
is so quick— she does things without half the considera- 
tion other people do. And she likes to settle everything.” 

But happily the confiding friendship of a life-time was 
too strong to be even harassed for a moment by the petu- 
lant suspicions of an angry girl. 

“ My dear, if you were not vexed and anxious, I should 
tell you that you were speaking very improperly of your 
aunt. lam perfectly satisfied that she is doing what is 
right by dear Fred, as well as by me ; and if I am satisfied, 
no one else has any right to object.” 

There was nothing left for Henrietta in her present state 
of spirits but to have a hearty cry, one of the best possible 
ways she could find of distressing her mother, who all the 
time was suffering infinitely more than she could imagine 
from her fears, her efforts to silence them, and the restraint 


296 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


which she was exercising upon herself, longing as she did 
to fly to her son's room, to see with her own eyes, and 
only detained by the fear that h(T sudden appearance there 
might agitate him. The tears, whatever might be their 
effect upon her, did Henrietta good, and restored her to 
something more like her proper senses. She grew rather 
alarmed, too, when she saw her mamma’s pale looks, as 
she leaned back almost exhausted with anxiety and re- 
pressed agitation. 

Mrs. Langfbrd came up to bring them some tea, and she, 
having little idea of the real state of things, took so en- 
couraging a view as to cheer them both, and her visit did 
much service, at least to Henrietta. Then they heard 
sounds announcing Philip Carey’s arrival, and presently 
after in came Bennet with a message from Mr. Frederick 
that he was better, and his mother was not to be fright 
ened. At last came Aunt Geoffrey, saying: “ Well, Mary, 
he is better. I have been very sorry to leave you so long, 
and T believe Henrietta,” looking at her with a smile, 

‘ ‘ thinks I have used you very ill. ’ ’ 

‘‘I believe she did,” said her mother, “but I was sure 
you would do right; you say he is better? Let me hear. ” 

“ Much better ; only But, Mary, you look quite worn 

out, you should go to bed.” 

“ Let me hear about him first.” 

Aunt Geoffrey accordingly told the whole history, as, 
perhaps, every one would not have told it, for one portion 
of it in some degree justified Henrietta's opinion that she 
had been doing a great deal on her own responsibility. It 
had been very difficult to stop the bleeding, and Fred, 
already very weak, had been so faint and exhausted that 
she had felt considerable alarm, and was much rejoiced by 
the arrival of Philip* Carey, who had not been at home 
when the messenger reached his house. Now, however, 
all was well ; he had fully approved all that she had done, 
and, although she did not repeat this to Mrs. Frederick 
Langford, had pronounced that her promptitude and en 
ergy had probably saved the patient’s life. Fred, greatly 
relieved, had fallen asleep, and she had now come, with 
almost an equal sense of relief, to tell his mother all that 
had passed, and ask her pardon. 

“Nay, Beatrice, what do you mean by that? Is it not 
what you and Geoffrey have always done to treat him as 
your own son instead of mine? and is it not almost my 
chief happiness to feel assured that you alwaj^s will do so? 
You know that is the reason I never thank you.” 

Henrietta hung her head, and felt’ that she had been 
very uniust and ungrateful, more especially when her 
aunt said, “You thought it very hard to have your mouth 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


297 


stopped, Henrietta, my dear, and I was sorry for it, but I 
had not much time to be polite. ’ ’ 

“lam sorry I was in the way,” said she, an acknowl 
edgment such as she had seldom made. 

Fred awoke the next morning much better, though 
greatly fallen back in his progress toward recovery, but 
his mother had during the night the worst fit of spasms 
from which she had ever suffered. 

But Henrietta thought it so well accounted for by all the 
agitations of the evening before, that there was no reason 
for further anxiety. 

It was a comfort to Aunt Geoffrey, who took it rather 
more seriously, that she received .that morning a letter 
from her husband, concluding: 

“As to the Queen Bee, I have no doubt that you can 
judge of her frame better from the tone of her letters than 
from anything I have to tell. I think her essentially im 
proved and improving, and you will think I do not speak 
without warrant, when I tell you that Lady Susaji ex 
presses herself quite warmly respecting her this morning, 
►She continues to imagine that she has the charge of Queen 
Bee, and not Queen Bee of her, and I think it much that 
she has been allowed to continue in the belief. Lady 
Amelia comes to-morrow, and then I hope the poor little 
woman’s penance may be over, for though she makes no 
complaints, there is no doubt that it is a heavy one, as her 
thorough enjoyment of a book, and an hour’s freedom 
from that little gossiping flow of plaintive talk, sufficiently 
testify.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Frederick had lost much ground, and yet on the whole 
his relapse was of no slight service to him. In the earlier 
part of his illness he had been so stupefied by the accident, 
that he had neither been conscious of his danger, nor was 
able to preserve any distinct remembrance of what he had 
suffered. But this return to his former state, with all his 
senses perfect, made him realize the rest, and begin to per- 
ceive how near to the grave he had been brought. A deep, 
shuddering sense of awe came over him, as he thought 
Avhat it would have been to die then, without a minute of 
clear recollection, and his last act one of willful disobedi- 
ence. And how had he requited the mercy which had 
spared him? He had shown as much of that same spirit of 
self-will as his feebleness would permit; he had been exact 
ing, discontented, rebellious, and well indeed had he de- 
served to be cut off in the midst of the sin in which he had 
persisted. 


298 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


He was too weak to talk, but his mind was wide awake ; 
and many an earnest thanksgiving, and resolution strength- 
ened by prayer, were made in silence during the two or 
three days that passed, partly in “such thoughts as these, 
and for many hours more in sleep; while sometimes his 
aunt, sometimes his sister, and sometimes even Bennet, sat 
by his bedside unchidden for not being “mamma.” 

“ Above all,” said he to himself, “ he would for the fut- 
ure devote himself to make up to her for all that he had 
caused her to suffer for his sake. Even if he were never 
to mount a horse or fire a gun for the rest of his life, what 
would such a sacrifice be for such a mother?” It was very 
disappointing that, at present, all he could even attempt to 
do for her was to send her messages— and affection does 
not travel well by messages— and at the same time to show 
submission to her known wishes. And after all, it would 
have been difficult not to have shown submission, for Aunt 
Geoffrey, as he had already felt, was not a person to be 
argued with, but to be obeyed; and for ver^ shame he 
could not have indulged himself in his Philippics after the 
proof he had experienced of their futility. 

So, partly on principle, and partly from necessity, he 
ceased to grumble, and from that time forth it was won- 
derful how much less unpleasant even external things ap- 
peared, and how much his health benefited by the tran- 
quillity of spirits thus produced. He was willing to be 
pleased with all that was done with that intent; and as he 
grew better, it certainly was a strange variety with which 
he had to be amused throughout the day. Very good- 
naturedly he received all such civilities, especially when 
Willy brought him a bottle of the first live sticklebacks of 
the season, accompanied by a message from Arthur that 
he hoped soon to send him a basin of tame tadpoles— and 
when John rushed up with a basket of blind young black 
satin puppies, their mother following in a state of agitation 
only equaled by that of Mrs. Langford and Judith. 

Willy, a nice intelligent little fellow, grew very fond of 
him, and spent much time with him, taking delight in his 
books and prints, beyond what could have been thought 
possible in one of the Sutton Leigh party. 

When he was strong enough to guide a pencil or pen, a 
very enjoyable correspondence commenced between him 
and his mother, who was still unable to leave her apart- 
ment; and hardly anyone ever passed between the two 
rooms without being the bearer of some playful greeting, or 
droll description of the present scene and occupation, 
chronicles of the fashionable arrivals of the white clouds 
before the window, of a bunch of violets, or a new book ; 
the fashionable departure of the headache, the fire, or a 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 




robin ; notices that tomtits were whetting their saws on the 
next tree, or of the domestic proceedings of the rooks who 
were building their house opposite to Mrs. Frederick Lang- 
ford’s window, and whom she watched so much that she 
was said to be in a fair way of solving the problem of how 
many sticks go to a crow’s nest; criticisms of the book? 



often a reference to that 


celebrated billet, unfortunately delivered overnight to 
Prince Talleyrand, informing him that his devoted friend 
had scarce closed her eyes all night, and then only to 
dream of him ! 

Henrietta grew very happy. She had her brother again, 
as wholly hers as in their younger days— depending upon 
her, participating in all her pleasures, or rather giving her 
favorite occupations double zest, by their being for him, 
for his amusement. She rode and walked in the beautiful 
open spring country with grandpapa, to whom she was a 
most valuable companion ; and on her return she had tAvo 
to visit, both of whom looked forward with keen interest 
and delight to hearing her histories of down and wood, of 
field and valley, of farm-house, cottage, or school; had a 
laugh for the least amusing circumstance, admiration for 
the spring flower or leaf, and power to follow her descrip- 
tions of budding woods, soft rising hills, and gorgeous sun- 
sets. How her mamma enjoyed comparing notes with her 
about those same woods and dells, and would describe the 
adventures of her own youth! And now it might be 
noticed that she did not avoid speaking of those in Avhich 
Henrietta's father had been engaged; nay, she dwelt on 
them by preference, and Avithout the suppressed sigh which 
had formerly followed anything like a reference to him. 
Sometimes she would smile to identify the bold open down 
with the same where she had run races Avith him, and even 
laugh to think of the droll adventures. Sometimes the 
shady woodland Avalk Avould make her describe their nut 
ting parties, or it Avould bring her thoughts to some fit of 
childish mischief and concealment, and to the confession 
to Avhich his bolder and more upright counsel had at length 
led her. Or she Avould tell of the long Avalks they had 
taken together when older grown, when each had become 
prime counselor and confidante of the other; and the in- 
terests and troubles of home and of school Avere poured 
out to Avilling ears, and sympathy and advice exchanged. 

She told how Fred and Mary had been companions from 
the very first, how their love had grown up unconsciously, 
in the sports in the sunny fields, shady coombs, and green 
woods of their home ; how it had strengthened and ripened 
with advancing years, and hoAv bright and unclouded their 
sunshine had been to dwell on ; this was her delight, while 




HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


the sadness which once spoke of crushed hopes and lost 
happiness, had gone from her ismile. It was as if she still 
felt herself walking in the light of his love, and, at the 
same time, as if she wished to show him to his daughter as 
he was, and to tell Henrietta of these \vords and those 
ways of his which were most characteristic, and which 
used to be laid'up so fast in her heart, that she could never 
have borne to speak of them. The bitterness of his death, 
as it regarded herself, seemed to have passed, the bright- 
ness of his memory alone remaining. Henrietta loved to 
listen, but scarcely so much as her mother loved to tell; and 
instead of agitating her, these recollections always seemed 
to soothe and make her happy. 

Henrietta knew that Aunt Geoffrey and grandpapa were 
both of them anxious about her mother’s health, but for 
her own part she did not think her worse than she had 
often been before; and whilst she continued in nearly the 
same state, rose every day, sat in her arm-chair, and was 
so cheerful, and even lively, there could not be very much 
amiss, even though there was no visible progress in amend - 
ment. Serious complaint there was, as she knew of old, 
to cause the spasms ; but it had existed so long, that after 
the first shock of being told of it two years ago, she had 
almost ceased to think about it. She satisfied herself to 
her own mind that it could not, should not be progressing, 
and that this was only a very slow recovery^ from the 
last attack. 

Time went on, and a shade began to come over Fred. 
He was bright and merry when anything occurred to 
amuse him, did not like reading less, or take less interest 
in his occupations ; but in the intervals of quiet he grew 
grave and almost melancholy, and his inquiries after his 
mother grew minute and anxious. 

“ Henrietta,” said he, one day when they were alone to- 
gether, “ I was trying to reckon how long it is since I have 
seen mamma.” 

” Oh, I think she will come and see you in a few days 
more,” said Henrietta. 

” You have told me that so many times,” said Fred. ” I 
think I must try to get to her. That passage, if it was not 
so vej'i/ long! If Uncle Geoffrey comes on Saturday, I am 
sure he can manage to take me there. ’ ’ 

“ It will be a festival day indeed when you meet!” said 
Henrietta. 

“Yes.” said he, thoughtfully. Then returning to the 
former subject, “But how long is it, Henrietta? This is the 
twenty-seventh of March, is it not?” 

‘‘ Yes; a whole quarter of a year you have been laid up 
liere.” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


801 


** It was somewhere about the beginning of February 
that Uncle Geoffrey went.” 

“The fourth,” said Henrietta. 

” And it was three days after he went away that mamma 
had those first spasms. Henrietta, she has been six weeks 
ill!” 

“ Well,” said Henrietta, “ you know she was five weeks 
without stirring out of the room, that last time she was ill 
at jRocksand, and she is getting better. ” 

” I don’t think it is getting better,” said Fred. “ You al- 
ways say so, but I don’t think you have anything to show 
for it.” 

“You might say the same for yourself,” said Henrietta, 
laughing. “You have been getting better these three 
months, poor man, and you need not boast.” 

“ Well, at least I can show something for it,” said Fred; 
“they allow me a lark’s diet instead of a wren’s, I can 
hold up my head like other people now, and I actually 
made my own legs and the table’s carry me to the window 
yesterday, which is what I call getting on. But I do not 
think it is so with mamma. A fortnight ago she used to 
be up by ten or eleven o’clock; now 1 don’t believe she 
ever is till one.” 

“It has been close, damp weather,” said Henrietta, sur- 
prised at the accurate remembrance, which she could not 
confute. “ She misses the cold, bracing wind.” 

“ I don’t like it,” said Fred, growing silent, and after a 
short interval beginning again more earnestly, “ Henrietta, 
neither you nor any one else are keeping anything from 
me, I trust?” 

“ O no, no!’ said Henrietta, eagerly. 

“You are quite sure?” 

“ Quite,” responded she. “ You know all I know, every 
bit; and I know all Aunt Geoffrey does, I am sure I do, 
for she always tells me what Mr. Philip Carey says. I 
have heard Uncle and Aunt Geoffrey both say strong 
things about keeping people in the dark, and I am con 
vinced they would not do so.” 

“I don’t think they would,” said Fred; “but I am not 
satisfied. Recollect and tell me clearly, are they convinced 
that this is only recovering slowly— I do not mean that ; 1 
know too well that this is not a thing to be got rid of; but 
do they think that she is going to be as well as usual?’' 

“I do,” said Henrietta, “ and you know lam more used 
to her illness than any of them. Bennet and I were agree- 
ing to-day that, considering how bad the spasms were, 
and how much fatigue she had been going through, we 
could not expect her to get on faster.” 

“ You do? But that is not Aunt Geoffrey.” 


m 


HENRIETTA'S If ^ISH. 


“Oh! Aunt Geoffrey is anxious, and expected her to 
get on faster, just like Busy Bee expecting everything to 
be so quick; but I am sure you could not get any more in- 
formation from her than from me, and impressions— I am 
sure you may trust mine, used as I am to watch mamma.” 

Fred asked no more ; but it was observable that from 
that day he never lost one of his mother’s little notes, 
placing them as soon as read in his pocket-book, and treas- 
uring them carefully. He also begged Henrietta to lend 
him a miniature of her mother, taken at the time of her 
marriage. It represented her in all her youthful loveli 
ness, with the long ringlets and plaits of dark brown hair 
hanging on her neck, the arch suppressed smile on her 
lips, and the laughing light in her deep blue eye. He 
looked at it for a little while, and then asked Henrietta if 
she thought that she could find, among the things sent 
from Rocksand, which had not yet been unpacked, an- 
other portrait, taken in the earlier months of her widow- 
hood, when she had in some partial degree recovered from 
her illness, but her life seemed still to hang on a thread. 
Mrs. Vivian, at whose especial desire it had been taken, 
had been very fond of it, and had always kept it in her 
room, and Fred was very anxious to see it again. After a 
long search, with Bennet’s help, Henrietta found it, and 
brought it to him. Thin, wan, and in the deep black gar 
ments, there was much, more general resemblance to her 
present appearance in this than in the portrait of the beau- 
tiful smiling bride. “And yet,” said Fred, as he com- 
pared them, “do not you think, Henrietta, that there is 
more of mamma in the first?” 

“ I see what you mean,” said Henrietta. “ You know it 
is by a much better artist.” 

“Yes,” said he, “the other is like enough in feature- 
more so c,ertainly to anything we have ever seen ; but what 
a difference! And yet what is it? Look! Her eyes gen 
erally have something melancholy in their look, and yet I 
am sure those bright, happy ones put me much more in 
mind of hers than these, looking so weighed down with 
sorrow. And the sweet smile, that is quite her own!” 

“If you could but see her now, Fred,” said Henrietta, 
“ I think you would indeed say so. She has now and then 
a beautiful little pink fiush, that lights up her eyes as well 
as her cheeks ; and when she smiles and talks about those 
old times with papa, she does really look just like the min- 
iature, all but her thinness.” 

“ I do not half like to hear of all that talking about my 
father,” murmured Fred to himself as he leaned back. 
Henrietta at first opened her eyes; then a sudden percep 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


803 


tion of his meaning flashed over her, and she began to talk 
of something else as fast as she could. 

Uncle Geoffrey came on Saturday afternoon, and after 
paying a minute’s visit to Fred, had a conference of more 
than an hour with his sister-in-law. Fred did not seem 
pleased with his sister’s information that “it was on busi- 
ness,” and only was in a slight degree reassured by being 
put in mind that there was always something to settle at 
Lady-day. Henrietta thought her uncle looked grave; 
and as she was especially anxious to prevent either herself 
or Fred from being frightened, she would not leave him 
alone in Fred’s room, knowing full well that no questions 
would be asked except in private— none at least of the de- 
scription which she dreaded. 

All Fred attempted was the making his long meditated 
request that he might visit his mother, and Uncle Geoffrey 
undertook to see whether it was possible. Numerous mes- 
sages passed, and at length it was arranged that on Sun- 
day, just before afternoon services when the house was 
quiet, his uncle should help him to her room, where his 
aunt would read to them both. 

Frederick made quite a preparation for what was to him 
a great undertaking. He sat counting the hours all the 
morning, and when at length the time arrived, his heart 
beat so violently, that it seemed to take away all the little 
strength he had. His uncle came in, but waited a few mo- 
ments; then saidf with some hesitation, “Fred, you must 
be prepared to see her a good deal altered.” 

“Yes,” said Fred, impatiently. 

“ And take the greatest care not to agitate her. Can you 
be trusted? I do not ask it for your own sake.” 

“Yes,” said Fred, resolutely. 

“Then come.” 

And in process of time Fred was at her door. There he 
quitted his uncle’s arm, and came forward alone to the 
large easy-chair where she sat by the fireside. Siie started 
joyfully forward, and soon he was on one knee before her, 
her arms round his neck, her tears dropping on his face, 
and a quiet sense ot excessive happiness felt by both. Then 
rising, he sunk back into another great chair, which his 
sister had arranged for him close to hers, and too much 
out of breath to speak, he passively let Henrietta make him 
comfortable there; while holding his mother’s hand, he 
kept his eyes fixed upon her, and she, anxious only for 
him, patted his cushions, offered her own, and pushed her 
footstool toward him. 

A few words passed between Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey 
Langford outside the door. 

“ I still tliiiik it a great risk,” said she. 


304 


HEiyRIETTA'S WISH. 


“ But I should not feel justified in preventing it,” was 
his answer, “only do not leave them long alone.” Then 
opening the door, he called, “Henrietta, there is the last 
bell.” And Henrietta, much against her will, was obliged 
to go with him to church, 

“ Good-bye, my dear,” said her mother. “ Think of us 
prisoners in the right way at church, and not in the wrong 
one.” 

Strangely came the sound of the church-bell to their ears 
through the window, half open ’to admit the breezy breath 
of spring ; the cawing of the rooks and the song of the black- 
bird came with it, the sky jvas clear and blue, the buds 
were bursting into life. 

“ How very lovely it is!” added she. 

Fred made a brief reply, but without turning his head to 
the window. His eyes, his thoughts, his whole soul, were 
full of the contemplation of what was to him a thousand 
times more lovely— that frail, wasted form, namely, whose 
hand he held. The delicate pink color which Henrietta 
had described was on her cheek, contrasting with the ivory 
whiteness of the rest of her face ; the blue eyes shone with 
a sweet, subdued brightness under their long, black lashes ; 
the lips smiled, though languidly, yet as sunnily as ever ; 
the dark hair lay in wavy lines along the sides of her face ; 
and but for the helplessness with which the figure rested 
in the chair, there was less outward token of suffering than 
he had often seen about her — more app^rance almost of 
youth and beauty. But it was not an earthly beauty; 
there was something about it which filled him with a kind 
of indescribable, undefined awe, together with dread 
of a sorrow toward which he shrunk from looking. She 
thought him fatigued with the exertion he had made, and 
allowed him to rest, while she contemplated with pleasure 
even the slight advances which he had already made in 
shaking off the traces of illness. 

The silence was not broken till Aunt Geoffrey came in, 
just as the last stroke of the church-bell died away, bring- 
ing in her hand a fragrant spray of the budding sweet 
brier. 

“The bees are coming out with you, Freddy,” said she. 
“ I have just been round the garden watching them revel- 
ing in the crocuses.” 

“How delicious!” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, to 
whom she had offered the sweet-brier. “ Give it to him, 
poor fellow ; he is quite knocked up with his journey.” 

“ 0 no, not in the least, mamma, thank you,” said Fred, 
sitting up vigorously; “ you do not know how strong I arn 
growing.^ ’ And then turning to the window, he made an ef- 
fort, and began observing on her rook’s nest, as she called 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


305 


it, and her lilac buds. Then came a few more cheerful ques- 
tions and comments on the late notes, and then Mrs. Fred- 
erick Langford proposed that the reading of the service 
should begin. 

Aunt Geoffrey, kneeling at the table, read the prayers, 
and Fred took the alternate verses of the Psalms. It was 
the last day of the month, and as he now and then raised 
his eyes to his mother’s face, he saw her lips follow the 
glorious responses in those psalms of praise, and a glisten- 
ing in her lifted eyes such as he could never forget. 

“ He healeth those that are broken in heart, and giveth 
medicine to heal their sickness. 

“He telleth the number of the stars, and calleth them 
all by their names.” 

He had read this verse as he had done many a time be- 
fore, without thinking of the exceeding beauty of the 
manner in which it is connected with the former one; but 
in after years he never read it again without that whole 
room rising before his eyes, and above all his mother's 
face. It was a sweet soft light, and not a gloom, that 
rested round that scene in his memory ; springtide sights 
aiid sounds, the beams of the declining sun, with its quiet 
spring radiance; the fresh mild air; even the bright fire, 
and the general look of calm cheerfulness which pervaded 
all around, all conduced to that impression which never 
left him. 

The service ended. Aunt Geoffrey read the hymn for the 
day in the “Christian Year,” and then left them for a 
few minutes; but, strange as it may seem, those likewise 
were spent in silence, and though there was some conver 
sation when she returned, Fred took little share in it. Si 
lent as he was, he could hardly believe that he had been 
there more than ten minutes, when sounds were heard of 
the rest of the family returning from church, and Mrs. 
Geoffrey Langford went down to meet them. 

In another instant Henrietta came up, very bright and 
joyous, with many kind messages from Aunt Roger. 
Next came Uncle Geoffrey, who, after a few cheerful ob 
servations on the beauty of the day, to which his sister re 
sponded with pleasure, said, “Now, Freddy, I must be 
hard-hearted; I am coming back almost directly to carry 
you off.” 

“ So soon !” exclaimed Henrietta. “Am I to be cheated 
of all the pleasures of seeing you together?” 

No one seemed to attend to her; but as soon as the 
door had closed behind his uncle, Fred moved as if to 
speak, paused, hesitated, then bent forward, and shading 
his face with his hand, said in a low voice: ” Mamma, say 
you forgive me.”* 


306 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


She held out her arm, and again he sunk on his knee, 
resting his head against her. 

“My own dear boy,” said she, “ I will not say I have 
nothing to forgive, for that I know is not what you want , 
but well do you know how freely forgiven and forgotten 
is all that you may ever feel to have been against my 

’ ar Frederick !” she added, 



“His choicest blessings 


be with you forever.” 

Uncle Geoffrey’s knock was heard; Frederick hastily 
rose to his feet, was folded in one more long embrace, then, 
without another word, suffered his uncle to lead him out 
of the room, and support him back to his own. He stretched 
himself on the sofa, turned his face inward, and gave two 
or three long gasping sighs, as if completely overpowered, 
though his uncle could scarcely determine whether by grief 
or by physical exhaustion. 

Henrietta looked frightened, but her uncle made her a 
sign to say nothing ; and after watching him anxiously for 
some minutes, during which he remained perfectly still, 
her uncle left the room, and she sat down to watch him, 
taking up a book, for she dreaded the reveries in which she 
had once been so prone to indulge. Fred remained for a 
long time tranquil, if not asleep ; and when at length he 
was disturbed, complained that his head ached, and seemed 
chiefly anxious to be left in quiet. It might be that, in ad- 
dition to his great weariness, he felt a charm upon him 
which he could not bear to break. At any rate, he 
scarcely looked up or spoke all the rest of the evening, ex- 
cepting that, when he went to bed, he sent a message that 
he hoped Uncle Geoffrey would come to his room the next 
morning before setting off, as he was obliged to do at a 
very early hour. 

He came, and found Fred awake, looking white and 
heavy -eyed, as if he had slept little, and allowing that his 
head still ached. 

“ Uncle Geoffrey,” said he, raising himself on his elbow, 
and looking at him earnestly, “ would it be of no use to 
have further advice?” 

His uncle understood him, and answered, “I hope that 

Dr. will come this evening or to-morrow morning. 

But,” added he, slowly and kindly, “you must not build 
your hopes upon that, Fred. It is more from the feeling 
that nothing should be untried, than from the expectation 
that he can be of use.” 

“Then there is no hope?” said Fred, with a strange 
quietness. 

“Man can do nothing,” answered his uncle. “You 
know how the case stands; the complaint cannot be 


B07 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 

peached, and there is scarcely a probability of its becoming 
inactive. It may be an affair of days or weeks, or she* mav 
yet rally, and be spared to us for some time longer.” 

” If I could but think so !” said Fred. “But I cannot. 
Her face will not let me hope.” 

‘‘ If ever a ray from heaven shone out upon a departing 
saint,” said Uncle Geoffrey— but he could not finish the 
sentence, and turning away, walked to the window. 

“And you must go!” said Fred, when he came back to 
his side again. 

‘ ‘ I must, ’ ’ said Uncle Geoffrey. ‘ ‘ Nothing but the most 
absolute necessity could make me leave you now. I 
scarcely could feel myself an honest man if I was not in 
my place to-morrow. I shall be here again on Thursday, 
at latest, and bring Beatrice. Your mother thinks she may 
be a comfort to Henrietta.” 

” Henrietta knows all this?” asked Fred. 

” As far as she will bear to believe it,” said his uncle. 
‘‘We cannot grudge her unconsciousness, but I am afraid 
it will be worse for her in the end. You must nerve your- 
self, Fred, to support her. Now, good-bye, and may God 
bless and strengthen you in your trial!” 

Fred was left alone again to the agony of the bitterest 
thoughts he had ever known. All his designs of devoting 
himself to her at an end ! Her whom he loved with such 
an intensity of enthusiastic admiration and reverence — the 
gentlest, the most affectionate, the most beautiful being he 
knew! Who would ever care for him as she did?” 

To whom would it matter now whether he was in danger 
or in safety? whether he distinguished himself or not? 
And how thoughtlessly had he trified with her comfort, 
for the mere pleasure of a moment, and even fancied him 
self justified in doing so I Even her present illness, had it 
not probably been brought on by her anxiety and at 
tendance on him? and it was his own willful disobedience 
to which all might be traced. It was no wonder that, 
passing from one such miserable thought to another, his 
bodily weakness was considerably increased, and he re- 
mained very languid and unwell; so much so that had 
Philip Carey ever presumed 1o question anything Mr. 
Geoffrey Langford thought fit to do, he would have pro- 
nounced yesterday's visit a most imprudent measure. In 
the afternoon, as Fred was lying on the sofa, he heard a 
foot on the stairs and going along the passage. 

” Who is that?” said he; ‘‘the new doctor already? It 
is a strange step.” 

“Oh! Fred, don’t be the fairy Fine Ear, as you used to 
be when you were at the worst,” said Henrietta. 

” But do you know who it is?” said he. 


808 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


“It is Mr. Franklin,” said Henrietta. “You know 
mamma has only been once at church since your accident, 
and then there was no Holy Communion. So you must 
not fancy she is worse, Fred.” 

“ I wished we were confirmed,” said Fred, sighing, and 
presently adding, “My prayer-book, if you please, Hen- 
rietta. ’ ’ 

“You will only make your head worse, with trying to 
read the small print,” she said; “ I will read anything you 
want to you.” 

He chose nevertheless to have it himself, and when he 
next spoke, it was to say, “I wish, when Mr. Franklin 
leaves her, you would ask him to come to me.” 

Henrietta did not like the proposal at all, and said all she 
could against it ; but Fred persisted, and made her at last 
undertake to ask Aunt Geoffrey’s consent. Even then she 
would have done her best to miss the opportunity; but 
Fred heard the first sounds, and she was obliged to fetch 
Mr. Franklin. The conference was not long, and she found 
no reason to regret that it had taken place ; for Fred did 
not seem so much oppressed and weighed down when she 
again returned to him. 

The physician who had been sent for arrived. He had 
seen Mrs. Frederick Langford some years before, and well 
understood her case, and his opinion was now exactly what 
Fred had been prepared by his uncle to expect. It was 
impossible to conjecture how long she might yet survive; 
another attack might come at any moment, and be the 
last. It might be deferred for weeks or months, or even 
now it was possible that she might rally, and return to her 
usual state of health. 

It was on this possibility, or as she chose to hear the word, 
probability, that Henrietta fixed her whole mind. The 
rest was to her as if unsaid ; she would not hear nor be 
lieve it, and shunned anything that brought the least im 
pression of the kind. The only occasion when she would 
avow her fears even to herself, was when she knelt in 
prayer; and then how wild and unsubmissive were her 
petitions! How hnbittered and wretched she would feel 
at her own powerlessness I Then the next minute she 
would drive off her fears as by force; call up a vision of a 
brightly smiling future; think, speak, and act, as if hiding 
her eyes would prevent the approach of the enemy she 
dreaded. 

Her grandmamma was as determined as herself to hope; 
and her grandpapa, though fully alive to the real state of 
the case, could not bear to sadden her before the time, and 
let her talk on and build schemes for the future, till he 
himself almost caught a glance of her hopes, and his deep 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


309 


Figh was the only warning she received from him. Fred, 
too weak for much argument, and not unwilling to rejoice 
now and then in an illusion, was easily silenced, and Aunt 
Geoffrey had no time for any one but the patient. Her 
whole thought, almost her whole being, was devoted to 
“ Mary,”- the friend, the sister of her childhood, whom she 
now attended upon with something of the reverent de- 
votedness with which an angel might be watched and 
served, were it to make a brief sojourn upon earth ; feeling 
it a privilege e.ach day that she was still permitted to at- 
tend her, and watching for each passing word and expres- 
sion as a treasure to dwelt on in many a subsequent 
year. 

It could not be thus with Henrietta, bent on seeing no ill- 
ness, on marking no traces of danger, shutting her eyes to 
all the tokens that her mother was not to be bound down 
to earth forever. She found her always cheerful, ready 
to take interest in all that pleased her, and still with the 
playfulness which never failed to light up all that ap 
proached her. A flower, what pleasure it gave her ! and 
how sweet her smile would be ! 

It was on the evening of the day after the physician’s 
visit, that Henrietta came in talking, with the purpose of, 
as she fancied, cheering her mother’s spirits, of some 
double lilac primroses which Mrs. Langford had promised 
her for the garden at the Pleasance. Her mamma smelled 
the flowers, admired them, and smiled as she said, “ Your 
papa planted a root of those in my little garden the first sum- 
mer I was here.” 

“Then I am sure you will like to have them at the 
Pleasance, mamma?” 

“ My dear child”— she paused, while Henrietta started, 
and gazed upon her, frightened at the manner— “you 
must not build upon our favorite old plan; you must pre- 
pare ” 

“ Oh but, mamma, you are better ! You are much better 
than two days ago; and these clear days do you so much 
good: and it is all so bright.” 

“Thanks to Him who has made it bright!” said her 
mother, taking her hand. “But I fear, my own dearest, 
that it will seem far otherwise to you. I want you to make 
up your mind ” 

Henrietta broke vehemently upon the feeble accents. 
“Mamma! mamma! you must not speak so! It is the 
worst thing people can possibly do to think despondingly 
of themselves. Aunt Geoffrey, do tell her so!” 

“Despondingly! my child; you little know what the 
thought is to me!” 


310 HENRIETTAS WISH 

The words were almost whispered, and Henrietta scarcely 
marked them. 

“No, no you must not! It is too cruel to me — T can’t 
bear it!” she cried; the tears in her eyes, and a violence of 
agitation about her, which her mother, feeble as she was, 
could not attempt to contend with. She rested her head on 
her cushions, and silently and mournfully followed with 
her eyes the hasty, trembling movements of her daughter,, 
who continued to arrange the things on the table, and 
make desperate attempts to regain her composure; but 
completely failing, caught up her bonnet, and hurried out 
of the room. 

“Poor dear child,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, “I 
wish she was more prepared. Beatrice, the comforting her 
is the dearest and saddest task I leave you. Fred, poor 
fellow, is prepared, and will bear up like a man ; but it will 
come fearfully upon her. And Henrietta and I have been 
more like sisters than mother and daughter. If she would 
only bear to hear me— but no, if I were to be overcome 
while speaking to her, it might give her pain in the recol* 
lection. Beatrice, you must tell her all I would say.” 

“If I could.” 

“You must tell her, Beatrice, that I was as undisciplined 
as she is now. Tell her how I have come to rejoice in the 
great affliction of my life : how little I knew how to bear 
It when Frederick was taken from me and his children, in 
the prime of his health and strength. You remember how 
crusned to the ground I was, and how it was said that my 
life was saved chiefly by the calmness that came with the 
full belief that I was dying. And O! how my spirit re- 
belled when I found myself recovering ! Do you remember 
the first day I went to church to return thanks?” 

“ It was after we were gone home.” 

“ Ah ! yes. I had put it off longer than I ought, because 
1 felt so utterly unable to join in tlie service. The sickness 
of heart that came with those verses of thanksgiving! All 
I could do was to pray to be forgiven for not being able to 
follow them. Now I can own with all my heart the mercy 
that would not grant my blind wish for death. My treas- 
ure was indeed in heaven, but O ! it was not the treasure 
that was meant. I was forgetting my mother, and so self- 
ish and untamed was I, that I was almost forgetting my 
poor babies ! Yes, tell her this, Beatrice, and tell her that, 
if duties and happiness sprung up all around me, forlorn 
and desolate as 1 thought myself, so much the more will 
they for her; and ‘at evening time there shall be light. ’ 
Tell her that I look to her for guiding and influencing Fred. 
She must never let a week pass without writing to him, 
and she must have the honored office of waiting on the old 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


311 


age of her grandfather and grandmother. I think she will 
be a comfort to them, do not you? They are fond of her, 
and she seems to suit them.” 

“ Yes, I have little doubt that she will be everything to 
them. I have especially noticed her ways with Mrs. 
Langford, they are so exactly what I have tried to teach 
Beatrice.” 

“ Dear little Busy Bee! I am glad she is coming; but in 
case I should not see her. give her her godmother’s love, 
and tell her that she and Henrietta must be what their 
mammas have been to each other; and that I trust that 
after thirty-five years’ friendship, they will still have as 
much comfort in one another as I have in you, my own 
dear Beatrice. I have written her name in one of these 
books,” she added, after a short interval, touching some 
which were always close to her. - “And Beatrice, one thing 
more I had to say,” she proceeded, taking up a Bible, and 
finding out a place in it. ‘‘Geoffrey has always been a 
happy, prosperous man, as he well deserves ; but if ever 
trouble should come to him in his turn, then show him 
this.” She pointed out the verse, ‘‘ Be as a father to the 
fatherless, and instead of a husband unto their mother; so 
shalt thou be as the son of the Most High, and He shall 
love thee more than thy mother doth.” “Show him that, 
and tell him it is his sister Mary’s last blessing.” 


CHAPTER XVHI. 

On Thursday morning Henrietta began to awake from 
her sound night’s rest. Was it a dream that she saw a 
head between her and the window? She thought it was, 
and turned to sleep again ; but at her movement tlie head 
turned, the figure advanced, and Mrs. Geoffrey Langford 
stood over her. 

Henrietta opened her eyes, and gazed upon her without 
saying a word for some moments; then, as her senses 
awakened, she half sprung up: “How is mamma? Does 
she want me? Why?” Her aunt made an effort to speak, 
but it seemed beyond her power. 

“Oh, aunt, aunt!” cried she, “what is the matter? 
What has happened? Speak to me!” 

“Henrietta,” said her aunt, in a low, calm, but hoarse 
tone, “ she bade you bear up for your brother’s sake.” 

“But— but ” said Henrietta, breathlessly, “and 

she ” 

“ My dear child, she is at rest.” 

Henrietta laid her head back, as if completely stunned, 
and unable to realize what she had heard. 

“ Tell me,” she said, after a few moments. 


m 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


Her aunt knelt by her and steadily, without a tear, began 
to speak. “It was at half-past twelve; she had been 
asleep some little time very quietly. I was just going to 
lie down on the sofa, when I thought her face looked dif- 
ferent, and stood watching. She woke, said she felt op- 
pressed, and asked me to raise her pillows. While she was 
leaning against my arm, there was a spasm, a shiver, and 
she was gone! Yes, we must only think of her as in per- 
fect peace!” 

Henrietta lay motionless for some moments, then at last 
broke out with a sort of anger, “Oh, why did you not call 
me?” 

“There was not one instant, my dear, and I could not 
ring, for fear of disturbing Fred. I (ioiild not call any one 
till it was too late.” 

“ Oh, why was I not there? I would— I would— she 
must have heard me. I would not have let her go. Oh, 
mamma!” cried Henrietta, almost unconscious of what she 
said, and bursting into a transport of ungovernable grief, 
sobbing violently, and uttering wild, incoherent exclama- 
tions. Her aunt tried in vain to soothe her by kind words, 
but all she said seemed only to add impulse to the torrent ; 
and at last she found herself obliged to wait till the vio- 
lence of the passion had in some degree exhausted itself ; 
and young, strong, and undisciplined as poor Henrietta was, 
this was not quickly. At last, however, the sobs grew less 
loud, and the exclamations less vehement. Aunt Geoffrey 
thought she could be heard, leaned down over her, kissed 
her, and said, “Now we must pray that we may fulfill 
her last desire; bear it patiently, and try to help your 
brother.” 

“Fred! oh, poor Fred!” and she seemed on the point 
of another burst of lamentation; but her aunt went on 
speaking: “I must go to him; he has yet to hear it, and 
you liad better come to him as soon as you are dressed.” 

“ Oh, aunt, I could not bear to see him. It will kill him, 
I know it will! Oh, no, no, I cannot, cannot see Fred! 
Oh, mamma, mamma!” 

A fresh fit of weeping succeeded, and Mrs. Geoffrey 
Langford, herself feeling most deeply, was in great doubt 
and perplexity ; she did not like to leave Henrietta in this 
condition, and yet there was an absolute necessity that she 
should goto poor Fred, before any chance accident or mis- 
take should reveal the truth. 

“ I must leave you, my dear,” said she, at last. “ Think 
how your dear mother bowed down her head to His will. 
Pray to your Father in heaven, who alone can comfort 
you. I must go to your brother, and when I return, I hope 
you will be more composed.” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


310 


The paia of witnessing the passionate sorrow of Hen- 
rietta was no good preparation for carrying the same tid- 
ings to one whose bodily weakness made it to be feared 
tliat he might suffer even more; but Mrs. Geoffrey Lang- 
ford feared to lose her composure by stopping to reflect, 
and hastened down from Henrietta’s room with a hurried 
step. 

She knocked at Fred’s door, and was answered by his 
voice. As she entered he looked at her with anxious eyes, 
and before she could speak, said: 

“I know what you are come to tell me.” 

“Yes, Fred,” said she; “but how?” 

“I was sure of it,” said Fred. “I knew I should never 
see her again ; and there were sounds this morning. Did 
not I hear poor Henrietta crying?” 

“ She has been crying very much,” said his aunt. 

‘ ‘ Ah ! she would never believe it, ” said Fred. ‘ ‘ But after 
last Sunday — oh, no one could look at that face, and think 
she was to stay here any longer !” 

“We could not wish it for her sake,” said his aunt, for 
the first time feeling almost overcome. 

“Let me hear how it was,” said Frederick, after a 
pause. 

His aunt repeated what she had before told Henrietta, 
and he then asked quickly : “ What did you do? I did not 
hear you ring.” 

“ No, that was what I was afraid of. I was going to call 
some one when I met grandpapa, who was just going up. 
He came with me, and— and was very kind — then he sent 
me to lie down; but I could not sleep, and went to wait 
for Henrietta’s waking.” 

Frederick gave a long, deep, heavy sigh, and said : 
“ Poor Henrietta! Is she verj" much overcome?” 

“ So much, that I hardly know how to leave her!” 

“ Don’t stay with me, then. Aunt Geoffrey. It is very 
kind in you, but I don’t think anything is much good to 
me.” He hid his face as he spoke thus, in a tone of the 
deepest dejection. 

“ Nothing but prayer, my dear Fred,” said she, gently. 
“ Then I will go to your sister again.” 

“ Thank you.” And she had reached the door when he 
asked : “ When does Uncle Geoffrey come?” 

“By the four o’clock train,” she answered, and moved 
on. 

Frederick hid his head under the clothes, and gave way 
to a burst of agony, which, silent as it was, was even more 
intense than his sister’s. O! the blank that life seemed 
without her look, her voice, her tone ! the frightful cer- 
tainty that he should never see her more! Then it would 


314 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


for a moment seem utterly incredible that she should thus 
have passed away ; but then returned the conviction, and 
he felt as if he could not even exist under it. But this ex- 
cessive oppression and consciousness of misery seemed 
chiefly to come upon him when alone. In the presence of 
another person he could talk in the same quiet, matter-of- 
fact way in which he had already done to his aunt; and 
the blow itself, sudden as it was, did not affect his health 
as the first anticipation of it had done. With Henrietta 
things were quite otherwise. When alone, she was quiet, 
in a sort of stupor, in which she scarcely even thought ; 
but the entrance of any person into her room threw her 
into a fresh paroxysm of grief, ever increasing in vehe- 
mence; then she was quieted a little, and was left to herself, 
but she could not, or would not, turn where alone comfort 
could be found, and repelled, almost as if it was an insult 
to her affection, any entreaty that she would even try to 
be comforted. Above all, in the perverseness of her undisci- 
plined affliction, she persisted in refusing to see her brother. 
She should “ do him harm,” she said. “ No, it was utterly 
impossible for her to control herself so as not to do him 
harm.” And thereupon her sobs and tears redoubled. 
She would not touch a morsel of food, she would not con- 
sent to leave her bed when asked to do so, though ten 
minutes after, in the restlessness of her misery, she was 
found walking up and down her room in her dressing- 
gown. 

Never had Mrs. Geoffrey Langford known a more trying 
day. Old Mr. Langford, who had loved “ Mary ” like his 
own child, did indeed bear up under the affliction with all 
his own noble spirit of Christian submission ; but, except- 
ing by his sympathv, he could be of little assistance to her 
in the many painful offices which fell to her share. Mrs. 
Langford walked about the house, active as ever ; now sit- 
ting down in her chair, and bursting into a flood of tears 
for “poor Mary,” or “ dear Frederick,” all the sorrow for 
whose loss seemed renewed; then rising vigorously, say- 
ing, “ Well, it is His will; it is all for the best!” and hast- 
ening away to see how Henrietta and Fred were, to make 
some arrangement about mourning, or to get Geoffrey's 
room ready for him. And in all these occupations she 
wanted Beatrice to consult or to sympathize, or to promise 
that Geoffrey would like and approve what she did. In 
the course of the morning Mr. and Mrs. Roger Langford 
came from Sutton Leigh, and the latter, by taking the 
charge of, talking to, and assisting Mrs. Langford, greatly 
relieved her sister in-law. Still there were the two young 
mourners. Henrietta was completely unmanageable, only 
resting now and then to break forth with more violence; 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


315 


and her sorrow far too selfish and unsubmissive to be 
soothed either by the thought of Him who sent it, or of 
the peace and rest to which that beloved one was gone ; 
and as once the anxiety for her brother had swallowed up 
all care for her mother, so now grief for her mother ab- 
sorbed every consideration for Frederick ; so that it was 
useless to attempt to persuade her to make any exertion 
for his sake. Nothing seemed in any degree to tranquilize 
her except Aunt Geoffrey’s reading to her; and then it was 
only that she was lulled by the sound of the voice, not 
that the sense reached her mind. But then, how go on 
reading to her all day, when poor Fred was left in his 
lonely room, to bear his own share of sorrow in solitude? 
For though Mr. and Mrs. Langford, and Uncle and Aunt 
Roger, made him many brief, kind visits, they all of them 
had either too much on their hands, or were unfitted 
by disposition to be the companions he wanted. It was 
only Aunt Geoffrey who could come and sit by him, and 
tell him all those precious sayings of his mother in her last 
days, which in her subdued, low voice, renewed that idea 
of perfect peace and repose which came with the image of 
his mother, and seemed to still the otherwise overpowering 
thought that she was gone. But in the midst the door 
would open, and grandmamma would come in, looking 
much distressed, with some such request as this — “Bea- 
trice, if Fred can spare you, would you just go up to poor 
Henrietta? I thought she was better, and that it was as 
well to do it at once ; so I went to ask her for one of her 
dresses, to send for a pattern for her mourning, and that 
has set her off crying to such a degree, that Elizabeth and 
I can do nothing with her. I wish Geoffrey was come !” 

Nothing was expressed so often through the day as this 
wish, and no one wished more earnestly than his wife, 
though, perhaps, she was the only person who did not say 
so a doz§n times. There was something cheering in hear- 
ing that his brother had actually set off to meet him at 
Allonfield; and at length Fred’s sharpened ears caught 
the sound of the carriage wheels, and he was come. It 
seemed as if he was considered by all as thchr own exclu- 
sive property. His mother had one of her quick, sudden 
bursts of lamentation as soon as she saw him; his brother, 
as usual, wanted to talk to him; Fred was above all eager 
for him ; and it was only his father who seemed even to 
recollect that his wife might want him more than all. And 
so she did. Her feelings were very strong and impetuous 
by nature, and the loss was one of the greatest she could 
have sustained. Nothing save her husband and child was 
so near to her heart as her sister ; and, worn out as she 
was by long attendance, sleepless nights, and this trying 


316 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


day, when all seemed to rest upon her, she now completely 
gave way, and was no sooner alone with her husband and 
daughter, than her long repressed feelings relieved them- 
selves in a flood of tears, which, though silent, were com * 
pletely beyond her own control. Now that he was come, 
she could, and indeed must, give way ; and the more she 
attempted to tell him of the peacefulness of her own dear 
Mary, the more her tears would stream forth. He saw 
how it was, and would not let her either reproach herself 
for her weakness, or attempt any longer to exert herself; 
but made her lie down on her bed, and told her that he 
and Queen Bee could manage very well. 

Queen Bee stood there pale, still, and bewildered looking. 
She had scarcely spoken since she heard of her aunt’s death ; 
and new as afiiiction was to her sunny life, scarce knew 
where she was, or whether this was her own dear Knight 
Sutton; and even her mother’s grief seemed to her almost 
more like a dream. 

“ Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, as soon as her 
daughter had been named, “ I ought to have sent you to 
Henrietta before.” 

“ Very well,” said Beatrice, though her heart sunk within 
her as she thought of her last attempt at consoling Henri- 
etta. 

“Go straight up to her,” continued her mother; “ don’t 
wait to let her think whether she will see you or not. I 
only wish poor Fred could do the same.” 

“ If I could but do her any good,” sighed Beatrice, as 
she opened the door, and hastened up stairs. She knocked, 
and entered without waiting for an answer. Henrietta 
lifted up her head, came forward with a little crv, threw 
herself into her arms, and wept bitterly. Mournful as all 
around was, there was a bright ray of comfort in Queen 
Bee’s heart when she was thus hailed as a friend and com 
forter. She only wished and longed to know what might 
best serve to console her poor Henrietta ; but all that oc- 
curred to her was to embrace and fondle her very affec- 
tionately, and call her by the most caressing names. 
This was all that Henrietta was as yet fit to bear; and 
after a time, growing quieter, she poured out to her cousin 
all her grief, without fear Of blame for its violence. 
Beatrice was sometimes indeed startled by the want of all 
idea of resignation ; but she could not believe that any one 
could feel otherwise— least of all Henrietta, who had lost 
her only parent, and that parent Aunt Mary. Neither 
did she feel herself good enough to talk seriously to Hen 
rietta; she considered herself as only sent to sit with her, 
so she did not make any attempt to preach the resigna- 
tion which was so much wanted; and Henrietta, who nad 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


317 


all day been hearing of it, and rebelling against it, was 
almost grateful to her. So Henrietta talked and talked, 
the same repeated lamentation, the same dreary views of 
the future coming over and over again ; and Beatrice’s only 
answer was to agree with all her heart to all that was said 
of her own dear Aunt Mary, and to assure Henrietta of the 
fervent love that was still left for her in so many hearts on 
earth. 

The hours passed on; Beatrice was called away, and 
Henrietta was inclined to be fretful at her leaving her ; 
but she presently returned, and the same discourse was 
renewed, until at last Beatrice began to read to her, and 
thus did much to soothe her spirits, persuaded her to take 
a tolerable meal at tea-time, bathed her eyelids that were 
blistered with tears, put her to bed, and finally read her to 
sleep. Then, as she crept quietly down to inquire after 
her mamma, and wish the others in the drawing-room 
good night, she reflected whether she had done what she 
ought for her cousin. 

“ I have not put a single right or really consoling thought 
into her head,” she said to herself, “ for as to the reading, 
she did not attend to that. But after all I could not have 
done it. I must be better myself before I tr5' to improve 
other people ; and it is not what I deserve to be allowed to 
be any comfort at all.” 

Thanks partly to Beatrice's possessing no rightful au- 
thority over Henrietta, partly to the old habit of relying 
on her, she contrived to make her get up and dress her- 
self at the usual time next morning. But nothing would 
prevail on her to go down -stairs. She said she could not 
endure to pass “ that door,” where ever before the fondest 
welcome awaited her ; and as to seeing her brother, that 
having been deferred yesterday, seemed to-day doubly 
dreadful. The worst of this piece of perverseness— for it 
really deserved no better name — was that it began to vex 
Fred. 

“But that I Icnow how to depend upon you, Uncle 
Geoffrey, ’’said he, “I should really think she must be ill. 
I never knew anything so strange.” 

Uncle Geoffrey resolved to put an end to it,- if possible; 
and soon after leaving Fred’s room he knocked at his 
niece’s door. She was sitting by the fire with a book in 
her hand, but not reading. 

“Good-morning, my dear,” said he, taking her languid 
hand. “ I bring you a message from Fred— that he hopes 
you are soon coming down to him.” 

She turned away her head. “ Poor, dear Fred !” said 
she; “ but it is quite impossible. I cannot bear it as he 
does; I should only overset him and do him harm.” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


:^i8 

“ And why cannot you bear it as he does?” asked her 
uncle, gravely. “ You do not think his affection for lier 
was less than yours? and you have all the advantages of 
health and strength.” 

“ O, no one can feel as I do!” cried Henrietta, with one 
of her passionate outbreaks. “ O, how I loved her!” 

“Fred did not love her less,” proceeded her uncle. 
“ And why will you leave him in sorrow and in weakness 
to doubt the sister’s love that should be Ins chief stay?” 

“ He does not doubt it,” sobbed Henrietta. “ He knows 
me better.” 

“Nay, Henrietta, what reason has he to trust to that 
affection which is not strong enough to overcome the 
dread of a few moments’ painful emotion?” 

“ O, but it is not that only! I shall feel it all so much 
more out of this room, where she has never been ; but to 
see the rest of the house —to go past her door ! O, uncle, I 
have not the strength for it.” 

“ No, your affection for him is not strong enough.” 

Henrietta’s pale cheeks flushed, and her tears were 
angry. “You do not know me. Uncle Geoffrey,” said 
she proudl}", and then she almost choked with weeping at 
unkindness where she most expected kindness. 

“ I know thus much of you, Henrietta. You have been 
nursing up your grief, and encouraging yourself in mur 
muring and repining, in a manner which you will one day 
see to have been sinful; you are obstinate in making your- 
self useless.” 

Henrietta, little used to blame, was roused to defend her- 
self with the first weapon she could. “Aunt Geoffrey is 
just as much knocked up as I am,” said she. 

If ever Uncle Geoffrey was made positively angry, he 
was so now, though if he had not thought it good that Hen- 
rietta should be roused, he would have repressed even 
such demonstrations as he made. 

“ Henrietta, this is too bad ! Has she been weakly yield- 
ing?— has she been shutting herself up in her roorn, and 
keeping aloof from those who most need her, lest she 
should pain her own feelings? Have not you rather been 
perplexing and distressing, and harassing her with your 
willful sdfishness, refusing to do the least thing to assist 
her in the care of your own brother, after she has been 
wearing herself out in watching over your mother? And 
now, when her strength and spirits are exhausted by the 
exertions she has made for you and yours, and I have 
been obliged to insist on her resting, you fancy her ex- 
ample an excuse for you! Is this the way your mother 
would have acted? I see arguing with you does you no 
good : I have no more to say.” 


HENRIETTA'S M^ISH 


8ld 

He got up, opened the door, and went out. Henrietta, 
dismayed at the accusation, but too well founded on her 
words, had but one thought, that he should not deem her 
regardless of bis kindness. “Uncle Geoffrey!” she cried. 
“O, uncle ’’but he was gone; and forgetting every- 

thing else, she flew after him down the stairs, and before 
she recollected anything else, she found herself stand 
ing in the hall, saying: “Oh, uncle, do not think I meant 
that !” 

At that moment her grandpapa came out of the draw- 
ing-room. 

“Henrietta!” he said, “I am glad to see you down- 
stairs.” 

Henrietta hastily returned his kiss, and looked some- 
what confused; then laying her hand entreatingly on her 
uncle’s arm, said: 

“ Only say you are not angry with me.” 

“No, no, Henrietta, not if you will act like a rational 
person,” said he, with something of a smile, which she 
could not help returning in her surprise at finding herself 
down-stairs after all. 

“And you do not imagine me ungrateful?” 

“Not when you are in your right senses.” 

“ Ungrateful !” exclaimed Mr. Langford. “What is he 
accusing you of, Henrietta? What is the meaning of all 
this?” 

“Nothing,” said Uncle Geoffrey, “but that Henrietta 
and I have both been somewhat angry with each other, 
but we have made it up now, have we not, Henrietta?” 

It was wonderful how much good the very air of the hall 
was doing Henrietta, and how fast it was restoring her 
energy and power of turning her mind to other things. 
She answered a few remai ks of grandpapa’s with very tol- 
erable cheerfulness, and even when the hall-door opened, 
and admitted Uncle and Aunt Roger, she did not run away, 
but stayed to receive their greetings before turning to 
ascend the stairs. 

“You are not going to shut yourself up in your own 
room again?” said grandpapa. 

“No, I was only going to Fred,” said she, growing as 
desirous of sbeing him as she had before been averse to it. 

“Suppose,” said Uncle Geoffrey, “ that you were to take 
a turn or two round the garden first. There is ^een Bee, 
she will go out with you, and j^ou will bring Fred in a 
fresher face.” 

“I will fetch your bonnet,” said Queen Bee, who was 
standing at the top of the stairs, wisely refraining from 
expressing her astonishment at seeing her cousin in the 
hall. 


320 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


And before Henrietta bad time to object, the bonnet was 
on her liead, a shawl thrown round her, Beatrice had 
drawn her arm within hers, and had opened the sashed 
door into the garden. 

It was a regular April day, with all the brilliancy and 
clearness of the sunshine that comes between showers, the 
white clouds hung in imge soft masses on the blue sky, 
the leaves of the evergreens were glistening with drops of 
rain, the birds sung sweetly in the shrubs around, Hen- 
rietta’s burning eyes felt refreshed, and though she sighed 
heavily, she could not help admiring, but Beatrice was sur- 
prised that the first thing she began to say was an earnest 
inquiry after Aunt Geoffrey, and a warm expression of 
gratitude toward her. 

Then the conversation died away again, and they com- 
pleted their two turns in silence; but Henrietta’s heart be- 
gan to fail her when she thought of going in without hav- 
ing her to greet. She lingered, and could hardly resolve 
to go, but at length she entered, walked up the stairs, gave 
her shawl and bonnet to Beatrice, and tapped at Fred’s 
door. 

“ Is that you?” was his eager answer, and as she entered 
he came forward to meet her. “Poor Henrietta!” was all 
he said, as she put her arm round his neck and kissed him, 
and then leaning on her, he returned to his sofa, made her 
sit by him, and showed all sorts of kind solicitude for her 
comfort. She had cried so much that she felt as if she 
could cry no longer, but she reproached herself excessively 
for having left him to himself so long, when all he 
wanted was to comfort her ; and she tried to make some 
apology. 

“ I am sorry I did not come sooner, Fred.” 

“0, it is of no use to talk about it,” said Fred, playing 
with lier long curls as she sat on a footstool close to him, 
just as she used to do in times long gone by. “You are 
come now, and that is all I want. Have you been out? I 
thought I heard the garden door just before you come in.” 

“Yes, I took two turns with Queen Bee. How bright 
and sunny it is. And how are you this morning, Freddy?” 

“ 0, pretty well, I think,” said he, sighing, as if he cared 
little about the matter. “ I wanted to show you this, Hen- 
rietta.” And he took up a book where he had marked a 
passage for her. She saw several paper marks in some 
other books, and perceived with shame that he had been 
reading yesterday, and choosing out what might comfort 
her, his selfish sister, as she could not help feeling herself. 

And here was the first great point gained, though there 
was still much for Henrietta to learn. It was the fiiSc time 
she had ever been conscious of her own selfishness, or per- 


HENRIETTA 'S WIS II. 


321 

haps more justly, of her proneness to make all give way to 
her own feeling of the moment. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

There was some question as to who should attend the 
funeral. Henrietta shuddered and trembled all over as if it 
was a cruelty to mention it before her ; but Frederick was 
very desirous that she should be there, partly from a sort 
of feeling that she would represent himself, and partly 
from a strong conviction that it would be good for her. 
She was willing to do anything or everything for him, to 
make up for her day’s neglect ; and she consented, though 
with many tears, and was glad that at least Fred seemed 
satisfied, and her uncle looked pleased with her. 

Aunt Geoffrey undertook to stay with Fred, and Hen- 
rietta, who clung much to Beatrice, felt relieved by tlje 
thought of her support in such an hour of trial. She re- 
membered the day when, with a kind of agreeable emo- 
tion, she had figured to herself her father’s funeral, lit- 
tle thinking of the reality that so soon awaited her, so 
much worse, as she thought, than wliat any of them 
could even then have felt ; and it seemed to her perfectly 
impossible that she should ever have power to go through 
with it. 

It was much, however, that she should have agreed to 
what in the prospect gave her so much pain; and, per 
haps, for that very reason, she found the reality less over- 
whelming than she had dreaded. Seeing nothing, observ- 
ing nothing, hardly conscious of anything, she walked 
along, wrapped in one absorbing sense of wretchedness; 
and the first words that “broke the stillness of that 
hour,” healing'S^s they were, seemed but to add certainty 
to that one thought that “ she was gone.” But while the 
Psalms and the Lessons were read, the first heavy oppres- 
sion of grief seemed in some degree to grow lighter. She 
could listen, and the words reached her mind; a degree of 
thankfulness arose to Him who had wiped away the tears 
from her mother’s eyes, and by whom the sting of death 
had been taken away. Yes; she had waited in faith, in 
patience, in meek submission, until now her long widow- 
hood was over; and what better for her could those who 
most loved her desire, than that she should safely sleep in 
the chancel of the church of her childhood, close to him 
whom she had so loved and so mourned, until the time 
when both should once more awaken— the corruptible 
should put on incorruption, the mortal should put on im- 
mortality, and death be swallowed up in victory. 

Something of this was what Henrietta began to feel; and 


322 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


though the tears flowed fast, they were not the bitter drops 
of personal sorrow. She was enabled to bear, without the 
agony she had expected, the standing round the grave in 
the chancel; nor did her heart swell rebelliously against 
the expression that it was ** in great mercy that the soul of 
this our dear sister ” was taken, even though she shrunk 
and shivered at the sound of the earth cast in, which would 
seem to close up from her forever ,tlie most loved and lov 
ing creature that she would ever know. No, not forever- 
might she too but keep her part in Him who is the Resur- 
rection and the Life — might she be found acceptable in His 
sight, and receive the blessing to be pronounced to all that 
love and fear Him. 

It was over; they all stood round for a few minutes. At 
last Mr. Langford moved ; Henrietta was also obliged to 
turn away, but before doing so, she raised her eyes to her 
father’s name, to take leave of him, as it were, as she al- 
ways did before going out of church. She met her uncle 
Geoffrey’s eye as she did so, and took his arm; and as 
soon as she was out of the church, she said, almost in a 
whisper: 

“ Uncle, I don’t wish for him now.” 

He pressed her arm, and looked most kindly at her; but 
he did not speak, for he could hardly command his voice ; 
and he saw, too, that she might safely be trusted to the in- 
fluences of that only true consolation which was coming 
upon her. 

They came home— to the home that looked as if it would 
fain be once more cheerful, with the front window blinds 
drawn up again, and the solemn stillness no longer ob- 
served. Henrietta hastened up to her own room, for she 
could not bear to show herself to her brother in her long 
crape veil. She threw her bonnet off, knelt down for a 
few minutes, but rose on hearing the approach of Beatrice, 
who still shared the same room. Beatrice came in, and 
looked at lier for a few moments, as if doubtful how to 
address her ; but at last she put her hand on her shoulder, 
and looking earnestly in her face repeated : 

“ Then cheerly to yonr work again. 

With hearts new braced and set. 

To run untir’d love’s blessed race. 

As meet for those who, face to face, 

Over the grave their Lord have met.” 

“ Yes, Queenie,” said Henrietta, giving a long sigh, “ it 
is a very different world to me now ; but I do mean to try. 
And first, dear Bee, you must let me thank you for having 
been very kind to me this long time past, though I am 
afraid I showed little thankfulness,” 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 323 

She kissed her affectionately, and the tears almost 
choked Beatrice. 

“Me! me, of all people,” said she. “Oh, Henrietta!” 

“ We must talk of it all another time,” said Henrietta; 
“but now it will not do to stay away from Fred any 
long(‘r. Don’t think this like the days -vAdien I used to run 
away from you in the winter. Bee — that time when 1 
would not stop and talk about the verses on the holly.” 

While she spoke, there was something of the “ new brac- 
ing” visible in every movement, as she set her dress to 
riglits, and arranged her curls, which of late she had been 
used to allow to hang in a deplorjible way, that showed 
how little vigor or inclination to bear up there was about 
her whole frame. 

“O no, do not stay with me,” said Queen Bee, “I am 

going ” to mamma, she would have said, but she hardly 

knew how to use the word when speaking to Henrfetta. 

“Yes,” said Henrietta, understanding her. “And tell 
her. Bee — for I am sure I shall never be able to say it to 
her--all about our thanks, and how sorry 1 am that I 
cared so little about her or her comfort.” 

“If I had only believed, instead of blinding myself so 
willfully!” she almost whispered to herselc with a deep 
sigh ; but being now ready, she ran down-stairs, and en- 
tered her brother's room. His countenance bore traces of 
weeping, but he was still calm; and as she came in he 
looked anxiously at her. She spoke quietly as she sat 
down by him, put her hand into his, and said, “Thank 
you, dear Fred, for making me go.” 

“ I was quite sure you would be glad when it was over,” 
said Fred. “I have been reading the service with Aunt 
Geoffrey, but that is a very different thing.” 

“ It will all come to you when you go to church again,” 
said Henrietta. 

“ How little I thought that New Year’s Day ” said 

Fred. 

“ Ah! and how little we either of us thought last sum- 
mer holidays!” said Henrietta. “If it was not for that, I 
could bear it all better ; but it was my determination to 
come here that seems to have caused everything, and that 
is the thought I cannot bear.” 

“I was talking all that over with Uncle Geoffrey last 
night,” said Fred, “ and he especially warned us against 
reproaching ourselves with consequences. He said it was 
he who had helped my father to choose the horse that 
caused his death, and asked me if I thought he ought to 
blame himself for that. I said no; and he went on to tell 
me that he did not think we ought to take unhappiness to 
ourselves for what has happened now ; that we ought to 


824 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


think of the actions themselves, instead of the results. 
Now my skating that day was just as bad as my driving, 
except, to be sure, that I put nobody in danger but myself ; 
it was just as much disobedience, and I ought to be just as 
sorry for it, though nothing came of it, except that I grew 
more willful.” 

“Yes,” said Henrietta, “but I shall always feel as if 
everything had been caused by me. I am sure I shall 
never dare to wish anything again.” 

“ It was just as much my wish as yours,” said Fred. 

“ Ah ! but you did not go on always trying to make her 
do what you pleased, and keeping her to it, and almost 
thinking it a thing of course, to make her give up her 
wishes to yours. That was what I was always doing, and 
now I can never make up for it!” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Fred, “we can never feel otherwise than 
that.* To know how she forgave us both, and how her 
wishes always turned to be the same as ours, if ours were 
not actually wrong ; that is little comfort to remember now, 
but perhaps it will be in time. But don’t you see, Hen- 
rietta, my dear, what Uncle Geoffrey means?— that if you 
did domineer over her, it was very wrong, and you may be 
sorry for that; but that you must not accuse yourself of 
doing all the mischief by bringing her here. He says he 
does not know whether it was not, after all, what was most 
for her comfort, it ” 

“ Ob, Freddy, to have you almost killed!” 

“ If the thoughts I have had lately will but stay with 
me when I am well again, I do not think my accident will 
be a matter of regret, Henrietta. Just consider, when I 
was so disobedient in these little things, and attending so 
little to her or to Uncle Geoffrey, how likely it was that I 
might have gone on to much worse at school and college.” 

“ Never, never!” said Henrietta. 

“ Not now, I hope,” said Fred; “ but that was not what 
I meant to say. No one could say. Uncle Geoffrey told 
me, that the illness was brought on either by anxiety or 
over exertion. The complaint was of long standing, and 
must have made progress some time or other ; and he said 
that lie was convinced that, as she said to Aunt Geoffrey, 
she had rather have been here than anywhere else. She 
said she could only be sorry for grandpapa and grand- 
mamma’s sake, but that for herself it was great happiness 
to have been to Knight Sutton Church once more ; and she 
was most thankful that she had come to die in my father’s 
home, after seeing us well settled here, instead of leaving 
us to come to it as a strange place.” 

“How little wo guessed it was for thatl” said Henri- 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 325 

etta. “Oh, what were we doing? But if it made her 
happy ” 

“Just imagine what to-day would have been if we 
were at Rocksand,” said Fred. “ I, obliged to go back 
to school directly, and you, taking leave of everything 
there which would seem to you so full of her; and 
Uncle Geoffrey just bringing you here without any time to 
stay with you, and the place and people all strange. I am 
sure she who thought so much for you, must have re- 
joiced that you ai-e at home here already.” 

“Home!” said Henrietta, “how determinedly we used 
to call it so! But, oh! that my wish should have turned 
out in such a manner ! If it has been all overruled so as to 
be happiness to her, as I am sure it has, I cannot complain ; 
but I think I shall never wish again, or care for my own 
way.” 

“The devices and desires of our own hearts!” said Fred. 

“ I don’t think I shall ever have spirit enough to be will- 
ful for my own sake,” proceeded Henrietta. “Nothing 
will ever be the same pleasure to me, as when she used to 
be my other self, and enjoy it all over again for me ; so 
that it was all twofold !” Here she hid her face, and her 
tears streamed fast, but they were soft and calm; and 
when she saw that Fred also was much overcome, she re- 
called her energies in a minute. 

“But, Fred, I may well be thankful that I have you, 
which is far more than I deserve ; and as long as we do 
what she wished, we are still obeying her. I think at last 
I may get something of the right sort of feeling ; for I am 
sure I see much better now what she and grandpapa used 
to mean when they talked about dear papa. And now do 
you like for me to read to you?” 

sic ^ * * 

Few words more require to be said of Frederick and 
Henrietta Langford. Knight Sutton Hall was, according 
to their mother’s wish, their home; and there Henrietta 
had the consolation, during the advancing spring and 
summer, of watching her brother’s recovery, which was 
very slow, but at the same time steady. Mrs. Geoffrey 
Langford stayed with her as long as he required much 
nursing; and Henrietta learned to look upon her, not as 
quite a mother, but at any rate as more than an aunt, far 
more than she had ever been to her before; and when at 
length she was obliged to return to Westminster, it was a 
great satisfaction to think how soon the vacation would 
bring them all back to Knight Sutton. 

The holidays arrived, and with them Alexander, who, to 
his great disappointment, was obliged to give up all his 
generous hopes that Fred would be one of his competitors 


326 


HENRIETTA'S WISH, 


for the prize, when he found him able indeed to be with 
the family, to walk short distances, and to resume many 
of his former habits; but still very easily tired, and his 
head in a condition to suffer severely from noise, excite- 
ment, or application. Perhaps this was no bad thing for 
their newly formed alliance, as Alex had numberless op- 
portunities of developing his consideration and kindness, 
by silencing his brothers, assisting his cousin when tired, 
and again and again silently giving up some favorite 
scheme of amusement when Fred proved to be unequal to 
it. Even Henrietta herself almost learned to trust Fred to 
Alex’s care, which was so much less irritating than lier 
own ; and how greatly the Queen Bee was improved is best 
shown, when it is related, that neither by word nor look 
did she once interrupt the harmony between them, or at- 
tempt to obtain the attention, of which, in fact, she always 
had as large a share as any reasonable person could desire. 

How fond Fred learned to be of Alex will be easily un 
derstood, and the best requital of his kindness that he could 
devise, was an offer — a very adventurous one, as was 
thought by all who heard of it — to undertake little Willy’s 
Latin, which being now far beyond Aunt Roger’s knowl- 
edge, had been under Alex’s care during the holidays. 
Willy was a very good pupil on the whole— better, it was 
said by most, then Alex himself had been — and very fond 
of Fred ; but Latin grammar andCsesar formed such a test 
as perhaps their alliance would scarcely have endured, if 
in an insensible manner Willy and his books had not grad 
ually been made over to Henrietta, whose great usefulness 
and good nature in this respect quite made up, in grand - 
mamma’s eyes, for her very tolerable amount of acquire- 
ments in Latin and Greek. 

By the time care for her brother’s healtli had ceased to 
be Henrietta’s grand object, and she was obliged once more 
to see him depart to pu^-sue his education, a whole circle 
of pursuits and occupations had sprung up around her, 
and given her the happiness of feeling herself both useful 
and valued. Old Mr. Langford saw in her almost the 
Mary he had parted with when resumed in early girlhood 
by Mrs. Vivian; Mrs. Langford had a granddaughter, who 
would either be petted, sent on messages, or be civil to the 
Careys, as occasion served; Aunt Roger was really grate- 
ful to her, as well for the Latin and Greek she bestowed 
upon Willy and Charlie, as for the braided merino frocks 
or coats on which Bennet used to exercise her taste when 
Henrietta’s wardrobe failed to afford her sufficient occu 
pation. The boys all liked her, made a friend of her, and 
demonstrated it in various ways more or less uncouth; 
her manners gradually acquired the influence over them 


HENRIETTA'S WISH. 


327 


which Queen Bee had only exerted over Alex and Willy; 
and when, saving Carey and Dick, they grew less awk 
ward and bearish, without losing their honest, downright 
good humor and good nature. Uncle Geoffrey only did her 
justice in attributing the change to her unconscious power. 
Miss Henrietta was also the friend of the poor women, the 
teacher and guide of the school children, and in their eyes 
and imagination second to no one but Mr. Franklin. And 
withal she did not cease to be all that she had ever been 
to her brother— if not still more. His heart and soul were 
for her, and scarce a joy or sorrow but was shared between 
them. She was his home, his everything, and she well 
fulfilled her mother’s parting trust, of being his truest 
friend and best beloved counselor. 

Would that her own want of submission and resignation 
had not prevented her from hearing the dear accents in 
which that charge was conveyed? This was, perhaps, the 
most deeply felt sorrow that followed her through life ; and 
even with the fair, peaceful image of her beloved mother, 
there was linked a painful memory of a long course of 
willfulness and domineering on her own part. But there 
was much to be dwelt on that spoke only of blessedness 
and love, and each day brought her nearer to her whom 
she had lost, so long as she was humbly striving to walk 
in the steps of Him who “ came not to do His own will, 
but the will of Him that sent Him.” 

[THE END.] 



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by Vernon Lee 10 

799 Maid, Wife, or Widow ? by Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

800 Thorns and Orange Blossoms, by 

B. M. Clay 10 

801 Romance of a Black Veil, by Clay.lO 

802 Lady Val worth’s Diamonds 10 

803 Love’s Warfare, by B. M. Clay 10 

804 Madolin’s Lover, by B. M. Clay 20 

805 A Housh,^Party, by Ouida 10 

806 From One the Gloom, by Clay 20 

807 Which Loved Him Best ? by Clay. . 10 

808 A True Magdalen, by B. M. Clay. 20 

809 The Sin of a Lifetime, by Clay 20 

810 Prince Charlie’s Daughter, by Clay.lO 

811 A Golden Heart, by B. M. Clay.. . .10 

812 Wife in Name Only, by B. M. Clay. 20 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 


814 Mohawks, by Miss M. E. Braddon. 20 

815 A Woman’s Error, by B. M. Clay. .20 

816 The Broken Seal, by Dora Russel 1.20 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince, by 

Commander Lovett-Cameron 20 

818 Once Again, by Mrs. Forre.ster . . . .20 

819 Treasure Island, by Stevenson 20 

820 Shane Fadh’s Wedding, by Carleton.lO 

821 Larry McFarland’s Wake, by Wil- 

liam Carleton 10 

822 The Party Fight and Funei-al, by 

William Carleton 10 

823 The Midnight Mass, by Carleton. ..10 

824 Phil Purcei, by William Carleton. 10 

825 An Irish Oath, by Carleton 10 

826 Going to Maynooth, by Carleton . . .10 

827 Phelim O’Toole’s Courtship, by 

W illiam Carleton 10 

828 Dominick the Poor Scholar, by 

William Carleton 10 

829 Neal Malone, by Williant, Carleton.. 10 

830 Twilight Club Tracts, by Wingate. 20 

831 The Son of His Father, by Oliphant.20 

832 SirPercival, by J. H. Shorthou8€..10 

833 A Voyage to the Cape, by Russell. .20 

834 Jack’s Courtship, by Russell 20 

835 A Sailor’s Sweetheart, by Russell. .20 

836 On the Eo’k’sle Head, by Russell. . . 20 

837 Marked “In Haste,” by Roosevelt. , 20 


Any of the above can be obtained from all booksellers and newsdealers, or will ba 
sent free by mail, on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMP.\Nr, 

Nos. 14 AND 10 VesPV S'l'UUK'r, Nkw V)' 


Tid^BUs or bonnebotuifien chosen from the wisest emd wii" 
tiest words that find their way into print about aXt 
the topics that mahe the world interesting^ 


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